The Road Not Taken
by S. Faith
Summary: Zigging up and zagging down timelines on different tracks. Book universe.
1. Two Roads Diverge

**The Road Not Taken**

By S. Faith, © 2019

Words: 28,324  
Rating: M / R  
Summary: Zigging up and zagging down timelines on different tracks.  
Disclaimer: Dance, puppets, dance! Sadly, though, not my puppets.  
Notes: Started out to commemorate the 24th anniversary of the first Bridget Jones's Diary column's debut on 28 February 1995, and snowballed into this.

It assumes that in 1995, Bridget turns 33 (as she does in the movie universe), and rewinds from there. Mark is 6 years older, and Daniel is Mark's age. No mobile phones, my friends.

Despite celebrating the 24th anniversary of the columns, and taking Bridget's age from the movies, this is more of a book universe timeline.

Title and chapter headers inspired by the poem "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost, which here I have, perhaps, deliberately misinterpreted. (Search for "The Most Misread Poem in America" on _The Paris Review_ for clarity on what I mean by 'misinterpreted.')

* * *

**Rewind**

_March, 1986_

Getting shit-faced with friends after splitting with your boyfriend of seven years was not, in retrospect, the best way to ring in the age of twenty-four.

The rhythm of the train on the tracks as it rolled north to Grafton Underwood seemed to be in time with the thumping of her vicious hangover headache. She had the rest of the train journey to banish it. She wasn't optimistic, but hoped that the paracetamol would kick in soon. She sipped on her takeaway coffee and rested her head against her seat. She felt like she could feel the blood pulse through her entire body with every heartbeat.

It was early on a Saturday, far earlier than she would have normally been awake after the previous night's drinking binge, but she had promised to go back to her childhood home for a birthday lunch with her parents. She had agreed to meet her dad at the Kettering train station at eleven in the morning; she was pushing her luck for making it on time by catching the 10 o'clock train. Thankfully, her dad's patience was boundless, for which she was eternally grateful. She hated disappointing her father almost more than anything.

She continued to sip her coffee and kept her eyes closed; she dozed off for what seemed only a moment when she heard the announcement for Kettering. She blinked a few times—thank bloody _God_ the headache had eased—then gathered up her things in order to disembark.

Her father, Colin, was waiting patiently beside the car, his hands in his pockets, and he offered a fond smile that she was all too glad to reciprocate. "Hello, poppet," he said. "How's the head?"

"Better, thanks," she said, reaching to give her dad a quick hug. She hadn't told him she'd had a hangover; somehow, he just knew. "How are you?"

"Glad to see you," he said with a grin. "Let's be off. Your mother awaits."

As he put the car into gear, she asked, "And how is Mum?"

"She's, you know, your mum," he said with a smile. "I do want to warn you, though."

Alarm washed over her. "Warn me? What about?"

"Your birthday lunch has taken on a life of its own," he said.

"What does that mean?"

"It's a bit more than just a lunch now," he said. "It's been a while since she put together a birthday party for you…"

"Oh _no_," she said. With her mother's friends. And their children.

"And she wanted to cheer you up after your breakup," he continued.

She understood what he was saying. _Try not to get too frustrated or annoyed with your mum, Bridget. She's doing her best._ "I'm really okay," she said. "I'm the one who ended it with Peter. But I appreciate the warning."

He chuckled. "I've done and will keep doing what I can to keep this from turning into one of Una's theme parties."

She laughed, her head throbbing slightly as she did. "I appreciate that even more."

When they arrived, she was glad she'd mentally prepared for the crowd of all of the faces she usually saw only at the holidays, and several of their grown children, with whom she had played as a child. There was a table with a cutesy decorated birthday cake, a stack of plates, balloons, streamers…

_Oh God_, she thought. _My mother is trying to recreate my childhood parties._

"Bridget!" A voice that could penetrate through any crowd, one she'd recognise anywhere.

"Hello, Mum," she said as she turned, reaching to embrace her and peck her cheek. "Wow, you really pushed the boat out here. This was way more than I was expecting—you needn't have gone to all this trouble."

"'Trouble,' I don't know!" said Pam. "It was no trouble at all; happy to surprise you with it. What do you think?"

She smiled. The effort that her mum had put in, and the pleasure that she derived from doing it, overrode any horror or annoyance she might have ordinarily felt. "It's terrific, Mum. Thanks."

Within a few moments her father was pressing a Bloody Mary into her hand, for which she was grateful. She circulated and made small talk with the Enderbys, the Alconburys, and even the Darcys, whom she had not seen in probably a decade or more, before her mother announced that lunch was ready.

True to form, it was a buffet-style luncheon; this time, it was all manner of what might best be termed finger foods: mini-quiches with cheddar and chives, cucumber and cream cheese finger sandwiches, cheese straws, cocktail meatballs on toothpicks, stuffed mushrooms, and even peanut chicken satay. This array of food was not atypical for her mother's parties, but she again appreciated the effort that her mum had made, and honestly, the food was better than usual.

The cake was superb, a Victoria sponge, and she had a large slice with a cup of fresh coffee. Bridget was grateful she was not pressed to blow out any candles, nor was she made to open a pile of gifts to a cooing audience. There were just a handful of cards, some of which contained £5 notes, and a present from her mum and dad, a blender to outfit her flat and a new scarf.

After all of the guests had gone, Bridget helped her mother collect all of the glasses, dishes, and flatware as her dad began doing the washing up. Before she knew it, it was time to get back to Kettering station to catch the train back to London.

"That was really lovely, Mum," she said, as she pecked her mother on the cheek. "Thanks again."

"Oh, darling, you're welcome," she said, her tone more subdued than usual. "Not quite what I'd hoped, but…" She trailed off.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," she began. "I'd hoped to have something to cheer you up after your split with Peter. Rather, some_one_. He's a nice young man with a fantastic future ahead of him, already a rising star in—"

Oh God, not a setup. "Mum, _no_," she interrupted.

"'No,' indeed," Pam said with a huff. "He just left for a job overseas, and who knows how long he'll be away, so my efforts to get him here to meet you were for naught."

Now that he wasn't coming, Bridget was half-relieved, half-intrigued. But in the end, relief won out. She had been the one to end the relationship with Peter, and now what she really wanted was to work on her career. Herself.

And maybe, _maybe_, dabble lightly in what else the world had to offer, as far as men who were _not_ fucking Peter.

**Fast-Forward**

_2005_

"I can't believe this day is finally here."

Her mother stood there, hands clasped near her face, tears of happiness welling in her eyes. Bridget smiled. Bridget knew how badly (and for how long) Pam had wanted to see her married. Particularly to the man she'd be meeting at the altar. And she felt particularly beautiful in her gown.

Before Bridget could answer, her mother flung her arms around her, hugging tightly.

"I'm_ so _happy for you, darling," Pam said.

"Watch the veil, Mum," Bridget said, to help stave off of her own tears, which were threatening to ruin her makeup.

Pam backed up. "You still look perfect." She paused for a moment. "To think this wedding might have happened a decade sooner…"

Bridget furrowed her brow. She had only met the man she was about to marry a decade ago, so… "What do you mean?"

"Do you remember that time when you came home from London for your birthday? You were…" She paused to think. "Ah yes. Turning twenty-four."

She remembered it vaguely. Vile hangover, finger foods, Victoria sponge. "Right. Just after I'd ended it with Peter," she said.

"Yes, that's the one. Now. You're going find this very amusing. I was _also_ trying to set you up with someone to cheer you."

It was coming back to her now. "Oh, right, I do remem—" She stopped suddenly. "Oh my _God_. Was it Mark?"

"Yes! Exactly!" said Pam, clapping her hands. She was grinning proudly, but then her voice went soft, almost awestruck. "Just _think_, darling!"

It was a little mind-blowing to consider she could have completely avoided some of the ups and downs of the relationships of her twenties. Then again, everything she'd experienced during that time had made her who she was—hadn't it? Perhaps Fate had intervened because they weren't ready yet…

_Hmmm._

"Just think," Bridget said at last, echoing her mum, unable to keep from smiling. She was looking forward to telling Mark.

"Well!" said Pam, her voice back to its bright and airy self. "Your dad will be here soon to walk you out." She paused, looking very pensive. "I really do wonder what might have happened if Mark had turned up."

**Rewind**

_March, 1986_

Bridget was just bringing her plate (and the remains of her birthday cake) to the kitchen when her mother caught her up, grinning wildly.

"Mum?" asked Bridget. "What is it?"

"Have I got a surprise for you!" she trilled, clasping her hands together.

A sinking sensation centred on her stomach; her mother's surprises usually evoked that reaction in her. "What kind of surprise?" Bridget asked cautiously.

"Just come and see."

"_Mum_."

"There's someone I'd like you to meet. He's a nice young man with a fantastic future ahead of him, already a rising star in—"

Bridget sighed, refraining from rolling her eyes. "_Mum_."

"But Bridget," she said. "I only want you to be _happy_. What's the harm?"

Her mother was an absolute expert at pulling all of the right strings for maximum guilt. "Fine," she said.

"Honestly, Bridget, you don't have to act like I'm leading you to the gallows."

The two of them left the kitchen; Bridget followed dutifully behind her mother. It was, she realised, very much like her childhood birthday parties, after all.

"Mark! There you are!" said Pam. At the sound of her voice, two young men turned to face her; two handsome young men of roughly the same height and similar attire, but with strikingly opposite features: one whose hair and eyes were dark brown, the other with light brown hair and blue eyes. The former wore a stony, unreadable expression, while the latter could not hide that he was pleased at her appearance; frankly, it was very flattering. _Please_, she thought, _let the blue-eyed one be Mark_.

"Hello, Mrs Jones," said the slightly taller one with the dark hair. He then looked to her. "You must be Bridget."

_Shit_.

"Yes," she said tentatively.

"You sound unsure," said the other man with a grin. "I'm Daniel."

She smiled in return.

"And, obviously, this is Mark," her mother supplied. "Malcolm and Elaine's son. Mark's a barrister, darling, very _much_ a rising star in the legal world."

She glanced back to Mark. His face was still impassive, almost expressionless, though his eyes were still trained unblinkingly upon her.

"I'll leave you young people to chat," Pam said in conclusion, pushing her towards Mark in an unsubtle way before taking her leave.

"So," Bridget said, trying to resuscitate conversation. "You're a barrister?"

"Yes," he said.

When it was clear he was not going to add anything further, Bridget said, "Right. And you, Daniel? What do you do?"

"Editor at a London publishing house."

"Oh," she said, brightening. "Like editor-in-chief?"

"Not… quite," he said. "Sub-sub-editor in charge of the slush pile. Not for long, if I can help it."

Bridget grinned. From this brief (so far) interaction, she could tell Daniel was very charming; the man veritably oozed charisma. What in the world did he have in common with the living statue that stood beside him? "That sounds pretty interesting, actually," she said. "I'm working at a small press, myself, handling publicity requests. Hope to move up into something like editor someday soon."

"If we have any slots to fill, I'll be sure to let you know."

The way Daniel said this nearly made her blush. Was he actually flirting in front of the friend who'd come to meet her as a part of her mother's machinations?

"Anyway," Daniel continued, "you'd never know it from his performance today, but Mark here is quite the orator in court. Not surprising. He blew us all away in Cambridge Union."

"Daniel," Mark said, in a tone oddly familiar to her; it was the same dark, vaguely threatening tenor she used when her mother was about to tell her friends a humiliating story from her daughter's childhood.

"And he routinely kicks my skinny arse at racquetball," Daniel added.

The penny finally dropped. "Oh, so you went to _uni_ together," Bridget said.

"Yep," Daniel said. "Actually, we go back farther than that."

At this, Bridget noticed visible tenseness in Mark's jaw. It seemed like he might be about to say something biting, but held his tongue.

"But I sense that Mark would hate—"

"You don't have to speak about me like I'm not here."

"Ah!" said Daniel. "At last, he speaks!"

Bridget giggled. She couldn't help herself.

"We should leave," Mark said. "I have a lot of prep to do."

"It's Saturday," Daniel said. "Live a little."

"Did you have cake?" Bridget asked abruptly; she didn't want it to get back to her mother that she hadn't been a graceful hostess. Ridiculous, but there it was. She supposed she didn't want her mother to think she'd driven Mark away, either.

"It was excellent, thank you," Mark said in a weirdly formal manner. "Be sure to pass my compliments to your mother." He went to take a step away, but then stopped, looked at her again, and said in that same tone, "Happy birthday."

"Thank you," she said, too stunned to say anything more.

With that, Mark turned and walked away.

Bridget turned to his friend. "Is he always like this?"

"Not always," Daniel said. "I'd better go before he leaves without me. Because he would."

"It was really nice meeting you, Daniel," she said. And she meant it.

"And Mark?" he said with a grin.

"He seems… interesting," Bridget said, laughing a little. "Bye."

She watched him walk away in the direction that his friend had headed; only belatedly did she think she should have given Daniel her telephone number. Impulsively she followed in the direction he'd gone, stopping only when she overheard the friends talking in the foyer.

"She thought you were interesting," said Daniel.

"She was probably being kind," Mark said quietly.

"And what did you think of her?" Daniel asked. Bridget held her breath in anticipation—not that Mark's positive opinion would validate her existence or anything, but she liked people to like her, and he was a good-looking man despite his demeanour.

"I'd rather not talk about it right now."

"Oh come on, mate, she's adorable."

She smiled to herself. Definitely flirting.

"I didn't say she wasn't," Mark said after a moment of silence.

"Okay, I guess that's a start. Why not ask—"

"Daniel," he interrupted sternly. "Drop it. Let's go."

With that the front door opened and closed again, and one peek around the corner into the foyer confirmed they had gone.

So Daniel knew it'd been a matchmaking effort, had seemingly tried to help facilitate communication (despite the flirting), and Mark had seemed uninterested at every turn. Mark obviously didn't want to ask her out. Her first instinct was to wonder what she'd done wrong, but she quickly rejected the notion. She'd conversed with Daniel quite comfortably, and Daniel had seemed interested. If something was wrong, she decided, it was with Mark, and she was probably better off.

"Did those boys go?"

Her mother.

"They just left," Bridget said.

"So soon? Well, no matter!" Pam said brightly. "How did you get on with Mark?"

"I think he said three words to me in total," she said. "He just was very… chilly."

"Oh, Bridget."

"Mum, I _tried_, but…" She shrugged. "I got on well with his friend, though."

"Watch yourself with that one," said her mother in a hushed tone. "Elaine was just telling me he's a bit of a playboy."

_I can absolutely believe that_, she thought. In the hopes of deflecting the topic, though, she said, "Mark said he thought the cake was excellent."

It worked.

"Of course it was excellent; it's a Victoria sponge, which was your granny's signature cake, which she taught me to bake, and which I'd hoped you'd have learnt to make by now…"

…

Monday night, as she came in from work, Bridget's phone was ringing off of the hook. She made it into the flat just in time for it to stop. Of course. With a broken answerphone, she had to hope whoever it was would call back.

She slipped out of her jacket, and had just poured herself a glass of wine when the phone began ringing again. She raced over to pick up the receiver.

"Hello?"

After a beat, a vaguely familiar male voice filled her ear. "Hello… is this Bridget?"

Her guard went up slightly. "Who's calling?"

"We met the other day," said this male voice. "Daniel?"

Her heart began racing. _He looked me up!_ "Oh, yes, of course. How are you?"

"Very hungry," he said. "And wondering if you might be hungry too."

Was he asking her out? "Actually, I am," she said.

"Fantastic," he said. "You know, I knew that the birthday party thing was meant to be a setup with ol' Mark, but, well… he can be a bit odd. And if he's not going to ask you out, I will."

"I could tell you knew," Bridget said. She couldn't help the grin that spread across her face. "And I'd love to have dinner with you tonight." After a beat, she asked, "You did mean tonight, right?"

He chuckled. "Yes. Wouldn't do me any good to wait to Friday. I'd waste away to nothing. So. Tell me where you are. I'll pick you up."

She gave him her address, but asked him to give her a little time to freshen up. "I literally just walked in the door."

"It'll take me that long to get across London," he mused. "See you soon. Oh. And consider getting yourself an answerphone. Miracle of modern science."

She giggled, said goodbye, and put down the phone. She grabbed her wineglass, went to touch up her makeup, and then find her favourite shoes, the one that made her legs look amazing.

…

When she stepped out onto the street to meet her date, his gaze conveyed his appreciation of her appearance. The casually buttoned dress shirt and jacket highlighted his lean but fit build, and she could not help but return the appreciation. "That'll do," he said, then grinned. "Come on, let's go. Don't want to be late."

They began to walk towards his car; she spotted it instantly, as it was a new model silver sedan that she'd never seen around these parts before. "So where are we going?"

"The best curry in London. Shit. I hope you like curry."

"Oh, yes, absolutely."

"Thank Christ." He paused. "Double shit. You're not a religious girl, are you?"

"Hardly," she said with a laugh.

"Hm," he drawled. "That bodes well."

She remembered her mother's words and vowed to keep them in mind, but he was so charming and _so_ very handsome…

After a brief car ride and a blessedly short quest to park the car, they went into the restaurant. The atmosphere was cosy and the scents in the air made her even hungrier. Within a few moments they were seated at their corner table being served mint water and a big basket of freshly made naan.

"Amazing."

"I told you this was the best," he said. "I'm glad you were available on such short notice."

"I'm glad you called," she said, perusing the menu. "I thought too late that I should've given you my number."

"Three cheers for directory assistance," Daniel said. "So what looks good?"

She picked the chicken korma, while he picked a vindaloo.

"Very brave of you," she joked.

"I like living on the edge," he volleyed back. "Wine?"

"Mm," she said. "Yes, please."

Within a few minutes the server brought and uncorked a bottle of German Riesling, and poured a glass for each of them, explaining that this was one of the best wines for the spices in their dishes.

"Mine's not too spicy, is it?" asked Bridget.

"No, miss, it's not," said the server, a young man whose nametag read Vivek, and who couldn't have been much older than she was. "Mr Daniel's dish, though…" He grinned. "Fire."

"Just the way I like it," said Daniel, waggling his brows.

"Do you want starters?"

"Yes, Vivek. The usual."

"Very good. I'll bring them straight away."

She drew her brows together. "So what's the usual?"

"You'll see."

As promised, Vivek brought the starters pretty much immediately, almost as if they had expected Daniel to order them. They were little fried discs made of potato and chickpea—"Aloo and dal," Daniel explained—which had just the right amount of spicy heat and which were served with a few chutneys: savoury onion, apple ginger, mint, and the standard mango-based Major Grey's. She couldn't decide which one she liked the most.

The main courses arrived next; Daniel had not exaggerated when he said this was the best in town. It was at least the best she'd ever had. Daniel poured more wine, and they had light, flirty conversation. They began eating their dessert: rose- and cardamom-flavoured fried dough balls called _gulab jamum_, along with creamy spiced chai.

"You know," he began, looking intently to his chai as he stirred it. "I have a bit of a confession to make."

"Oh?"

"I thought you were adorable on Saturday, but I was wrong," he said, then met her gaze. "You're bloody gorgeous."

She didn't know quite what to say, and looked to the table; it was such a shift in conversation, and was the sort of thing she usually heard in the afterglow of shagging, not at dinner on a first date. She again remembered (inconveniently) her mum's words about his being a ladies' man. "Thank you," she said, somewhat neutrally.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him run his hand over his face. "Ah, damn, I've blown it," he said sheepishly. "Now you think I just want get you into bed… and while I _would_ like that, that's _not_ why I said that."

She laughed at his honesty. "Why did you say it?"

"Because I was thinking it, and I wanted you to know."

She smiled, feeling somewhat warmer towards him. "It is a rather nice compliment to hear."

"Maybe you'll give me the chance to give you a few more," Daniel said, placing his hand over hers; it was smooth and very warm. "Go out with me again."

Her smile broadened a little. "I'd like that. A lot."

He grinned; he had such a winning smile. "I was hoping you might." He withdrew his hand and sat up straight. "Getting a bit late on a school night, miss. If you're finished, I'd best get you home before your curfew."

She chuckled at his teasing. "Yes, sir."

They walked back to the car in pleasant silence; only once he was on London's roadways again did he ask if Friday would work for her.

"I'll have to check my diary," she said, "but I'm pretty sure that I have no plans."

"Excellent." He shifted gear as he sped up. "All right if I come 'round for you at half six?"

She'd have plenty of time to prepare. "Perfect," she said.

"Yes, indeed."

He found a place to stop the car along the kerb near her building, then reached forward to pop open the glove box. In there he pulled out a pen and a small notebook. He wrote something down, then tore out the page and gave it to her.

"My home number," he explained, "and my desk number at work. Give me a ring before Friday to confirm your diary is in fact free."

She smiled as she folded it and slipped it into her handbag. "I'll do that."

"Come on," Daniel said. "I'll walk you to your door."

They both rose at the same time for the short walk; she was a little lost in her thoughts. She had already decided that a kiss goodnight would be fine, but would not ask him upstairs. He had done an expert job at romancing her tonight, but it would do her no good to jump into things with a reputed womaniser.

"Had a really nice night," she said, turning to him from where he stood beside her on the stoop. "Looking forward to Friday."

"So am I."

He raised a hand to cup her face in his hand, then bent and placed a kiss on her lips; sweet, brief, almost chaste, yet still titillating. He met her gaze; it seemed like he was gauging whether she would welcome another one. Or more.

"Goodnight, Daniel," she said quietly.

He stepped back, smiling disarmingly, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "Goodnight," he said.

She reached into her handbag for her key, let herself in, and closed the door. She exhaled at length and leaned back, marvelling at the close call. She'd had more passionate kisses in her life, but the one from Daniel tonight had made her glad she had given advanced thought to how the evening should end. Had she not done so, she absolutely would have weakened at the electricity of that touch and asked him up to her flat. Slept with him.

She dug her packet of Silk Cut from the depths of her bag, and with a slightly shaking hand she lit a cigarette and thought further about the night. The thing was, she now doubted whether it would have been so bad to give in. She was young, and frankly, she missed sex. She'd been exclusively with Peter since uni, and while she had loved him at the start, their physical relationship had grown somewhat predictable and monotonous over the years. By the end of it, she was out of love with him. Now? Now, she wanted a rebound fling. She wanted excitement; she wanted a bit of adventure; she wanted her toes to curl. And she suspected Daniel could deliver.

_Such a bad idea_, she thought, as she pulled the paper with Daniel's number out of her handbag. _It's Monday night. Should get ready for tomorrow, then get a good night's sleep._

She dialled it anyway. Left a message on his answerphone.

Within an hour, her entryphone was buzzing with his return.

She did _not_ get a good night's sleep.

_Was absolutely worth it_.

…

From his position at the door of the pub, Daniel could see that Mark was sat nursing a pint of bitter as he waited. Daniel hadn't turned up to a pre-arranged drinks date (such as it was) with Mark later the previous evening. He knew that Mark had already guessed that the no-show had had something to do with a woman, as it often did. Not turning up would have annoyed Mark, but not surprised him, and would not have angered him enough to not turn up for lunch in retribution.

_Poor sod probably lives vicariously through me_, Daniel thought.

Daniel dropped into the seat opposite Mark, grin in place.

"Last night," Mark said rather than asked, meeting Daniel's gaze, then pointed to the bitter he'd ordered in advance for Daniel; their usual pub orders would undoubtedly be along shortly.

"Slight change of plans last night," Daniel said. "Sorry not to ring and let you know, but time was of the essence. Told you I had a dinner date, first date. Gave her my number, left her at her front door. As expected, else I never would have planned to still meet you. What I _hadn't_ expected was to drop home to check messages just to find her asking me to come back." He laughed lightly. "Didn't think she'd be the sort to shag me on the first date. Was too good to pass up."

"I assumed it was something similar," Mark said.

"Come to think, Mark," Daniel continued, grasping the pint and picking it up, "you _did_ pass it up."

"Pardon?"

"That birthday party you dragged me along to in your hometown," he elaborated. "The setup. Mmm."

Mark's eyes flashed up to look at Daniel, his features unreadable.

"What?" Daniel asked.

The plates of food arrived; the server retreated.

"I just didn't realise you were going to ask her out, that's all," Mark said in a low tone.

_Fucking hell_, Daniel thought. He exhaled roughly and said, "Mark, when I asked you what you thought of her, when I asked whether you were going to ask her out, you told me to drop it. And then you didn't say anything else. You didn't project _anything_ like interest." Daniel watched his friend for any sign of a reaction; a slight reddening around the collar suggested that perhaps Mark had in fact been interested. "I've heard of playing it cool, but this is ridiculous. If you're interested in a girl, you have to… I don't know, _give a sign_. Especially you want to admit it to your wingman when he pointedly asks."

"It's not important," Mark said, turning to his lunch.

"It _is_," Daniel insisted. "Mark, I didn't press it because you _never_ seem interested. I wouldn't have asked her out if I'd thought you were. But I did. You're not going to be peevish about it, are you?"

Mark firmed his jaw. "Of course not," he said tightly. He then seemed to relax. "Come on. Your chips are going cold."

…

There had been any number of attempts by the elders of Grafton Underwood to arrange meetings between Mark and the single girls of the village (and its surrounds). Hell, the same had been attempted by his colleagues in chambers; it almost felt like a hazing ritual aimed for the barrister with the least seniority.

The result had always been the same. The village girls were either incredibly naïve (not a fatal defect, but he did not have the time or patience to take on the task of helping them overcome it) or desperate to escape to the city (and fawned over him in an over-compensatory fashion). The city girls to which he was introduced were usually focused on finding a prestigious partner (Mark's star was quickly rising in law circles, and they would have known it) or simply one with a lot of money (while he wasn't there yet, they knew he would be). As cool and as brittle as shards of ice, overly coiffed and in fierce competition with one another over everything from the hottest designers and their newest lines, to owning the right vehicle, but there was nothing of substance to find when scratching beneath the surface. Daniel would occasionally try to introduce him to a potential date, and had done for years. While he appreciated the efforts, nothing ever seemed to click.

He did not find them at all appealing.

Given all of that, Mark's expectations that day at the birthday party had not been high. He'd expected… well, it was unkind to think of in retrospect, but he'd expected a girl (he supposed he should think 'woman') close to his own age, a plain one who never garnered a second look, or one who did not meet his requirements for personality, intellect, or both. After all, if her parents were trying to match-make for her…

_What does that say about me, then?_

Imagine his surprise, then, when he'd turned around and had seen her. Until that moment, her age hadn't really clicked. Twenty-four, as the paper bunting over the buffet spread had proclaimed. Blonde, blue-eyed, rosy-cream complexion. Tight black cardigan, brightly coloured miniskirt, black tights, and ankle-high black suede boots with a subtle heel that still put him almost a head taller. She was very pretty, and he'd been instantly attracted, but he'd still been cautious. He was looking for more than pretty, however. He did not want to invest the time if they were not compatible in other, more important ways.

It was soon obvious she had come into this meeting as reluctantly as he had, which was something of a novelty to him. She'd tried to make small talk, but he'd been caught unawares by her apparent sincere interest in knowing, and he was not good with small talk when he wasn't discombobulated. She had also not gone out of her way to try to impress Mark, as most of them did. Her banter with Daniel had been playful and comfortable, and she really did have a winning smile. She seemed confident and quick-witted. Though the conversation had been short, it'd been memorable.

She had definitely intrigued him. But he had blown it.

Daniel's query in the foyer had also caught him off-guard. Despite what Daniel had said, there was no way she'd found him the least bit interesting. He'd given her nothing with which to work; this was, admittedly, his own fault. He also hadn't wanted to talk about the situation while still in the house. Someone could have heard. _She_ could have heard. And if she had no interest, then he'd seen little point in expressing his own, inside of the house or out of it.

He now regretted this position.

The admission that Daniel's date the night before—his _shag_ the night before—had been Bridget had been unexpectedly devastating to Mark. Daniel had been absolutely right, though; Mark had given no hint to his thoughts or feelings, and Daniel was not a mind reader. Despite their long friendship, not even Daniel always knew what Mark was thinking. He didn't hold this against Daniel.

He blamed himself. His lack of self-confidence with women. He despaired he'd ever get it right.

…

"Look, Mark, I feel terrible. If you want to me put off the date on Friday…"

Mark looked up and out of his thoughts, and at Daniel again. "Why?"

"Well, if you'd like to have a shot."

Mark scoffed. "I'm not in the habit of accepting charity," he said. "Besides. She's already expressed ample interest in you. I'm an afterthought, at best."

Daniel pursed his lips. "It's not charity," he said. "I feel like I jumped the queue on you. I could step back if—"

Mark interrupted, "You're talking about a _woman_, not a funfair attraction."

Daniel laughed a little. "No comment," he said with a grin. "In all seriousness, all right. I get the picture."

…

Daniel did feel terrible. Daniel had always had an easy time talking with women, knowing just what to say and when to say it. Mark had not been so lucky. Mark had had a series of short-term girlfriends in uni—_usually thanks to me, come to think of it_—but once Mark had moved on to law school, once he'd entered into his profession, female companionship had seemed much rarer. _Married to his work_, thought Daniel.

However, once Mark had seen the age of thirty swiftly approaching on the horizon, he'd seemed to realise that there was more to life than working, and he'd begin to make the effort again. He was woefully out of practice, and Daniel tried to encourage him whenever he could. It was hard for Daniel to gauge what exactly Mark wanted in a woman now. In school it had seemed like physical attraction was at the top of the list; as a hormone-addled teen, this hardly seemed surprising. Physical attraction was certainly still on the list, but while Daniel was still satisfied with moving from woman to woman for sex with no strings attached, Mark seemed to be looking for more. And had apparently believed he might have found someone to meet his criteria—though he had not made any outward indication of same—with Daniel's latest lover.

Daniel liked her a lot, she had really turned him on, and he'd had a great time in bed with her, but knowing that he'd inadvertently shut out his best friend from the first girl in years in which he'd taken an active interest was going to be a mood-killer in future.

Mark had already made his feelings known, regarding Daniel's offer to cancel the date. What else could he do?

Then a slow smile washed over his features.

…

"Mark, it's Daniel. Are you free Friday night?"

Mark was immediately suspicious. "Thought you had a date on Friday."

"She cancelled," Daniel said nonchalantly. "Meet me instead for dinner. Pity to let the reservation go to waste."

"Where?"

"At the Savoy Grill."

Mark let out a breath. "Sure." He had no plans otherwise, and Daniel knew it. Even though Daniel was just a mate, it'd be nice to see a friendly face after a long week.

"Excellent, see you then."

On Friday, Mark turned up early, as was his wont.

"Reservation for Cleaver, 7:30."

The maître d' consulted their reservation book. "Ah, yes," he said, running his finger along the line on the schedule, then closed it and looked up. "The table is not yet ready, if you'd care to wait at the bar."

At the suggestion, Mark very suddenly wanted a drink. With a small smile he nodded in acknowledgment and went over to the bar.

He was most of the way through two fingers of scotch when he consulted his wristwatch. 7:35. He furrowed his brow; it was not like Daniel to be late like this. And what was taking so long with the table?

He turned from the bar to watch for Daniel's arrival. Instead, he saw the last person he expected to see: Daniel's supposedly cancelled date, Bridget. Her gaze scanned the bar, swept past him, then returned to him with confusion on her face. She began to walk towards him; he could not help noticing the way the high-heeled shoes accentuated her legs. She looked absolutely stunning in a sapphire dress that brushed her knees and was cut low in the front. Her hair was swept up with a light fringe around her face. "Hi," she said cautiously as she got nearer. "Daniel told me to meet him here, and they just told me he was in the bar. Have you seen him?"

Mark felt slightly lightheaded. In that instant, he knew that she had not cancelled her date with Daniel at all.

Daniel had set him up.

"The maître d' must have been confused," he said. "Daniel's…" he began, then, thinking quickly, he lied wildly, "Daniel sent me here to meet you, to let you know he was unavoidably detained and can't make it." He knew Daniel's intentions were good, and didn't want her to think ill of him.

She could not hide her disappointment quickly enough from him. "Oh," she said; she seemed ready to bolt.

Surprising himself with his unexpected boldness—_The scotch as courage? Perhaps_—he said, "Since you've come all this way, to make it up to you, let _me_ buy you dinner, instead." Thinking of Daniel's words earlier that week, Mark added, "No point in letting the reservation go to waste. It would also give me the chance to apologise for my appalling lack of conversation and courtesy when we met at your birthday party."

She looked sceptical. "Um… sure," she said at last, then let slip a small smile. "You've already talked more to me just now than you did that day."

"Splendid," Mark said with a unreserved smile, then held out his free hand. "Let's see if that table's ready."

Miraculously, it was; he had to wonder if Daniel hadn't given specific instructions to facilitate meeting her in the bar area. Clever Cleaver.

Speaking of…

She took a seat and his manners kicked in; he pushed the chair in for her. "If you'll pardon me for just a moment … feel free to order a drink."

He returned to the maître d's station.

"Is there something wrong, sir?"

"Could I trouble you for a telephone to use? I'm expecting an important message on my machine at home."

"No trouble at all, sir."

The maître d' showed him to a small alcove just around the corner in the hotel proper. Mark was quick to dial Daniel's number.

"Cleaver here."

"It's Mark," he said in hushed tones, keeping his eye on the restaurant entrance; it would not do to have her follow him out and overhear this conversation.

"Ah. Got my surprise, did you?"

"Yes, but that's a discussion for another time. Calling to say that _you_ sent me here to meet her and tell her that you couldn't make it."

"Right," Daniel said, understanding completely. "Same page."

"I'll leave it up to you to decide what kept you from coming tonight."

"In more ways than one," Daniel quipped. "Well, go on, then. Have a nice time."

"Hope to do," he said. Then he added, "Thanks."

"You can owe me one, mate." He then put down the phone. Mark did the same.

As he returned to the restaurant his gaze sought out where Bridget sat; the shade of blue of her dress was difficult to miss. He saw that, in the short time he had been gone, she had been brought a cocktail, a lemon drop martini, if the shape of the glass and the pale yellow of the drink was anything to go by, and she was perusing the menu.

"They came by for drinks, but I wasn't sure what you wanted," Bridget said as he took a seat. "I didn't think one of these—" She indicated her own drink. "—was your thing, especially after _that_." She indicated the remains of his scotch.

"Another scotch, sir?" came the attentive server's voice from behind him.

"Yes, thank you," he said.

"May I interest you in a starter?"

The server recommended the wild mushroom and leek vol-au-vents to share, and with that, he withdrew.

He suddenly felt pressure to keep conversation going. He didn't want to give the slightest suggestion that he might be disinterested.

"Given any thought to your main course?" he asked.

"Honestly, no," she said, referring to the menu again. "Can't make heads or tails of some of these descriptions."

"We could ask our waiter for recommendations."

"I guess it depends on how good the vol-au-vents are," she said with a smirk. He couldn't help chuckling. "Have you been here before?"

"Actually, I have, but it's been a while." Silently, the server placed the tumbler in front of Mark and was off again. "The sirloin dish is particularly good, as I recall. So is the pollock. But you really can't go wrong."

"Hm." Her eyes flitted over the menu again as she sipped her cocktail. She looked up and met his gaze, which was unfortunately at that moment trained upon her. He felt his face flush at being caught looking, and he looked down quickly to the menu. "What about you?"

"The sirloin," he said without hesitation.

Just then, the starter arrived, and it looked delectable.

"Ladies first," Mark said, indicating the platter.

"Ooh, thank you." She plucked one up and took a bite from it. The sound of approval as she did was unmistakeable. "Oh God," she said in hushed tones, "it's all right to eat these with your fingers, isn't it?"

…

God, this man was hard to read.

Her first impression of him from the party had not changed, at least not by much. Daniel was an open book; his thoughts, emotions, desires were close to the surface. This man… he barely let anything show.

Polar opposites.

She had been given hints tonight, though. He wasn't completely a robot, as evidenced by his apology and his offer to buy her dinner. He seemed to be making an effort; he had more than made up for his behaviour on her birthday by being exceedingly courteous and solicitous, and this had made him all the more attractive. She had also seen his expression upon seeing her, when she had first spotted him, and had seen him looking at her a few moments ago. He'd had a hard time tonight hiding that he'd appreciated what he'd seen, and that had been an unexpected ego booster.

He had a sternness, a seriousness about him, though; it was hard to believe that he and Daniel were the same age. When he tensed his jaw, she didn't know it was because he was holding his tongue from saying something disapproving, or for another reason altogether.

Like now. She couldn't tell by his reaction if eating the vol-au-vents with her fingers in the Savoy Grill was a faux pas, or not.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, he responded, "I wouldn't worry about it." And then he plucked up one with his fingers to take a bite, then another. Once he had finished eating it, he revealed his opinion very much matched her own. "Oh, that is quite good."

She still wasn't sure if eating the starter with her fingers was acceptable, but if it weren't, he seemed willing to commit a social blunder with her.

For her.

_Very interesting_, she thought.

"I suppose it'll be safe to ask for recommendations, then," he added, carefully choosing a second vol-au-vent.

"Very safe," she said, reaching for remaining one.

The server's recommendation of the braised pork and crushed potato turned out to be one of the more delicious meals she'd ever had, and the accompanying wine was perfect. As they ate, they made conversation about innocuous subjects. He explained a little more about his work—he had the most serious, grown-up job of anyone she'd ever met, working in human rights law—and then very considerately asked about her work in publishing. She was sure she was babbling, going from work to her previous schooling to the amazing flat she'd managed to secure. If it bored him, he was a masterful actor.

He asked whether she was interested in dessert; given that sticky toffee pudding with ice cream was on the menu, she agreed. He chose a rhubarb and custard tart. With dessert they had coffee, and as they worked through both, she asked about his own uni education. As soon as he said he'd gone to Cambridge, she remembered that she already knew that. Daniel had been a friend since uni.

"Allow me to drive you home," he said, as they retrieved her coat from the coat check. "It's late and it could be a while until you secure a cab."

She smiled a little to herself. She couldn't think of anyone she knew who talked like he did. She remembered his compliments to her mother for the Victoria sponge. "Yes, that'd be wonderful. Thanks."

He too had a pristine silver car—she wondered if the friends had coordinated on purpose, but quickly decided not—and opened then close the door for her. Within a few minutes they were silently gliding through the streets of London and over the bridge to the south bank of the Thames.

Given that the night had begun with abject disappointment that Daniel had to miss their date, it had turned out to be a wonderful evening. She was extremely grateful to have gotten more of a chance to talk with Mark and get to know him a bit better. She knew now that he had not been uninterested then, but (weirdly so, considering his job) just very reserved when it came to women. She realised then why it had been such an ego boost to see his appreciative regard. His normally high levels of reserve meant seeing anything come to the surface was all the more rewarding.

There were hidden depths there of which she'd had no idea. There might yet be more to plumb.

Much like after her date with Daniel, she found herself thinking on the way home about whether or not she should invite him up. Would she be betraying Daniel? Then again, she and Daniel could hardly be considered anything close to being in a committed relationship after one dinner date and a night of shagging… she had made no promises.

"I had a really nice time tonight," she said as he made the final turn onto her street. "It was also a kind of a happy accident that Daniel couldn't make it, since it gave us a sort of do-over."

She saw the corner of his mouth turn up in a small smile. "Entirely my pleasure."

He drew up to a blessedly empty spot along the kerb a half of a city block from her building, then switched off the car. "I'll walk you to the door," he said. "I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you between here and there."

"My neighbourhood isn't _that_ bad," she joked.

He looked genuinely distraught. "Oh, I didn't mean—"

She laughed lightly. "I was kidding," she said. Her laugh transformed into a warm smile. "I'd like it if you came up."

He furrowed his brow, as if he could not quite comprehend what she was saying. She placed her hand atop where his sat on the centre console.

There was another fleeting moment where he was not quick enough to hide his emotions; he seemed surprised but pleased, and seemed to be at a loss for more coherent words. "Me?"

She smiled again, grazing her nails across the back of his hand. "Yes."

He blinked rapidly a few times; she watched as his jaw tensed and released as he swallowed. If Mark also thought of possible betrayal of Daniel, it did not stop him from saying, "I'd very much like that."

…

As he said it, he couldn't believe he was saying it.

He couldn't deny that he was interested in something more than casual sex; neither could he deny that he wanted her very much. She was even more attractive to him than when he first met her, and he was only a man, after all. Daniel had basically given his blessing. He would have been mad to turn down her invitation.

"Let's go upstairs then?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"Yes, my apologies. One moment."

He exited the car and went around to her door to open it. She grinned up at him. "Well, that was nice of you."

"My pleasure." He held his hand out to help her out of the car, and she took it… and didn't let go.

"It's this way," she said, tugging him in the right direction.

All he could focus on was her warm hand holding his, until they reached the front stoop, when she opened her handbag for her keys. As she turned to unlock the building's door, he brought a hand to her midback, almost protectively.

He followed her to the top flat, followed her inside.

"Make yourself at home," she said. "Can I get you anything? A drink?"

Had he misinterpreted? Was she intending only a nightcap? "I don't suppose you have scotch," he said with a small smile.

"Sadly, I don't," she said. "I have some chardonnay…."

"That'll be fine."

She offered a smile. "Okay." She then headed towards the kitchen area. He couldn't take his eyes off of her; specifically, her backside. He shook his head as if to break the spell, then doffed his suit jacket and rested it across the banister by her flat's door.

"Fuck," he heard her mutter.

He turned back to see her peering into her refrigerator, before looking to him. "I've just realised that I'm out of wine."

"It's all right," he said. "I'm not really here for the wine."

Her smile was reserved but her amusement was clear. Again he could hardly believe he'd said what he'd said. "Ahh," she said. She walked back towards him. "I take the point." She came closer to him, met his gaze with her own. He had a distinct height advantage despite her heeled shoes. "You know," she said. "You have really lovely eyes."

"Thank y—"

He stopped short when she lifted herself up on her toes in order to press her lips to his. It was just a quick peck, but it held the promise of so much more.

And he wanted more.

"Let's adjourn to the sofa, shall we?" he said, his voice a whisper.

"I say we cut to the chase," she said, taking his hand in hers, "and go straight to my bedroom."

There was that lightheaded feeling again.

Bliss.

From the moment he stepped through the threshold and into the dimly lit room, he was swept up in her; she threw her arms about his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. He stumbled slightly forward, wrapping his arms around her, his mouth pressed to hers; then, as if waking from sleep, he plied her with a series of deep, passionate kisses that left him not caring if he ever breathed again. He heard her gasp as his hands slipped over the object of his earlier gaze and grasped, pressing her tightly to him.

He felt her own hands run over his back, over his trousers, and to his own arse; she was not shy about pressing her fingers into him, to the point where he let out a sigh.

Somehow, they were suddenly atop the bed—he wasn't sure if she had pulled him down, or he had directed her there—and his hand was raising the hem of that blue dress higher and higher, caressing her thigh as he did. His own thigh was between hers, and he pressed up into her, eliciting a little groan into his mouth. Then his hand was on the elastic leg band of her pants, traversing upward to feel the soft skin of her backside, her hip, her gently curved tummy.

"Wasting no time," she said throatily between stuttered breaths.

He pressed his thigh upward again as caressed her skin.

"Oh my _God_, get a condom," she breathed, then pointed towards her little bedside table. "Top drawer."

He pushed away and dove for the bedside table, even as he was taken by surprise that she had them at all. He always kept one in his wallet; it never hurt to be prepared, after all, to protect one's health. But he had never been with a woman who had been similarly prepared.

Hurriedly he undid his the belt and trousers, tugged down his pants, condom in hand. When he'd finished, he turned back to look at her, he saw that she had pushed herself properly back onto the bed, was reclined back on her elbows against the pillows, her dress tented between her raised knees. Her pants were on the floor; her blonde hair was mussed; her blue eyes glittered; her ruddy lips offered another smile.

God, did he want her.

And he was going to show her.

…

_What the hell had just happened?_

Bridget laid sprawled out on her back on the bed, staring in disbelief at the ceiling, her breath finally starting to resemble something close to normal; the fireworks behind her eyes were only just now fading, the sensation only just returning to her fingers and toes after the shag she'd just had.

A shag with the last man she would have expected to bring her to such ecstasy.

Hidden depths, indeed.

He rested to her side but partially against her, with his head on the pillow and an arm across her waist. She turned her head slightly to look at him; his breath had calmed, but his eyes were closed. She studied his features in repose; they were much softer than when he was awake, it seemed. Much less serious.

Handsome. Considerate. Courteous. Fantastic body. Amazing shag. Rocky smart. Pre-approved by her mum. She couldn't help wondering what was wrong with him. He seemed almost too good to be true. Maybe she could ask Daniel… but no. That'd be too weird.

His eyes then opened and met hers directly.

"Hi," she said stupidly.

He offered a small smile, said with unmistakeable fondness in his tone, "Hello." He blinked a couple of times. "Sorry, must have dozed off there."

_After that exertion, little wonder_, she mused.

"Are you cold?" he asked, shifting, pushing himself carefully up.

"A little."

He sat up, reaching for a blanket at the foot of her bed, which he then spread over the both of them.

"This poor dress," she began, thinking of the blue silk that was now currently bunched around her hips and lower back.

"Absolutely glorious on you," he said. "But, if you like… I can help you out of it. For the sake of the dress and all."

He was full of surprises.

Then he sighed and surprised her again.

…

"I have something of a confession to make."

She stirred, raising her head to look at him. "Ooh, what?"

At that moment, he almost lost his nerve, but he hated that the whole night was predicated on a little white lie. Pausing at just that moment, though, caused her features to fall. "Oh my God," she said. "What is it?"

"It's nothing serious," he said. "It's just that I wasn't completely honest earlier."

She sat up, drawing a blanket up to her. "_That's_ 'nothing serious'?"

"I don't mean like that," he said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Daniel didn't send me to find you."

"And you just _happened_ to be there?"

"No, no. He told me that you had cancelled, and asked me to meet him for dinner."

She looked entirely dumbfounded. "What on—why in the world would he do that?"

He sat up, too. "It's about your birthday party. You know, where my mother and yours were trying to set us up. I'm afraid I… gave Daniel the impression that I wasn't interested."

To his surprise, she smiled ever so slightly; he'd expected at least a little offense at the thought of being snubbed. Then she spoke. "I got that impression, too."

"But since Daniel thought I was passing you over, he felt free to ask you out. When he realised that I, er, _was_ interested, he felt terrible, and offered to cancel the date. I told him no. I mean—I _did_ want to ask you out, but it… wasn't some kind of contest or prize to win, like I somehow deserved a shot with you first. So he took matters into his own hands and arranged it so that we'd both turn up expecting Daniel."

She looked very thoughtful; her usually expressive features were hard to read. "Very French farce," she said at last. "And _terribly_ considerate of Daniel."

"I didn't ask him to do it, and I never expected the night would end like this," he said. "I panicked in the moment with the white lie because I really wanted to buy you dinner."

"_Never_ expected?"

"Honestly, no," he said. "I just wanted to get to know you better, and get the opportunity to maybe improve your opinion of me after I'd been such an arse."

She was quiet again for many moments. "Have a confession, too," she said, then met his gaze again. "I overheard you speaking to Daniel in the foyer as you were leaving."

He was mortified. "Oh, no," he said. "I never wanted you to hear that. I'm sorry."

"It's all right," she said, then smiled as she reclined back onto her pillows, dropping the blanket again. "You might have noticed my opinion of you has in fact since improved. Now. About this dress?"

He should have gone home, but he resolutely ignored he voice of logic as he leaned over to kiss her again.


	2. Bent in the Undergrowth

**Fast-Forward**

_2005_

"Shazzer?"

"Yeah?"

"Weird question for you."

"Bring it on."

Sitting having a coffee with one of her very best friends, Bridget couldn't help thinking of what her mum had said on her wedding day, about how she had almost met Mark Darcy nearly ten years before they'd actually met for the first time. "Do you think twenty-four-year-old me would have been into—" She stopped to do some mental math. "—thirty-year-old Mark?"

Shazzer scoffed. "No way," she said. "If he had half as much of a poker up his arse then—Ow!"

Bridget had reached across the table to lightly smack her arm.

Shazzer went on: "No offense; you know I've grown fond of him, and he's a really good guy," she said. "But let's be realistic. His personality would not have been much different at thirty, and you would have had even less patience for it, because you were at the height of your power over men in your mid-twenties."

"I'm going to try not to be too offended at that, either."

"You know what I mean," she said, then launched into her PhD-style theory about the power dynamic shift of men and woman in their thirties, one which Bridget had heard countless times before: "You had men _falling_ over you at twenty-four, men who went to great efforts to get you into bed. You had your pick. Men on the cusp of thirty are mostly still building their careers, moving up in the world… and generally less self-confident with women, especially with those women wielding their power." Shazzer giggled, brandishing an invisible sword. "Mark would have just, I don't know, _brooded intensely_ at you."

Bridget couldn't help but laugh. "Ooh," she said, thinking suddenly of other significant relationships in her life. "You know, I bet I would have _really_ got on with Daniel when I was twenty-four. Me, at the height of my power (as you say), with no care for getting back into a serious relationship or having babies yet, and him, wanting to shag anything that moves…"

Shazzer thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "I bet he was the exception that proves the rule. I bet he's _always_ had insane confidence with women and his career, even while working in the mail room. And with both of you as confident as fuck… you would have been shag-a-thoning for _years_."

Bridget almost choked on her coffee from laughing. "Oh my God. You can never tell Mark about this conversation."

Shazzer made a zip motion across her mouth. "He would _not_ understand," she said. "_Particularly_ that last bit about Daniel."

**Rewind**

_1986_

"Shazzer?"

"Mm-hm?"

"Dilemma. Major, major dilemma."

Pause. "I'll be over as soon as I can."

She was true to her word; her friend did not live but a block away, and would always come bearing wine, possibly chocolate. This time she brought both.

"What's up?" Shazzer said, dropping down onto Bridget's sofa. "I knew something must have been up if you're not getting ready to go out on a Saturday night."

Bridget laughed weakly. "I got it all out of my system earlier this week, I guess."

"Ooooo. Do tell."

As she poured the wine and cracked open the chocolate, Bridget outlined the week: her birthday, meeting the two men who were the best of friends. Having dinner then a great night of sex with both of them—"Separate nights! _Separately!_" she added with a giggle—in a single week. Still thinking of both of them fondly. Very inconvenient.

Shazzer pursed her lips. "What a terrible dilemma to have, indeed," she said, then whipped out a cigarette. "Whatever the fuck to do?"

"I wish I knew," she said.

"Let's start with this. Which one was the better shag?" Shazzer asked.

Bridget laughed lightly. "Believe it or not, the quiet one, Mark." At that, she pulled down the collar of her shirt to show the evidence of that passion last night: the purplish-red love bite on her neck near her shoulder.

Shazzer's brows lifted. "Impressive," Shazzer said. "And I totally believe it. They go out of their way to make an impression because they don't know when they'll get some again."

"I really don't think it was just him desperately gagging for it," Bridget said, swiping the cigarette and taking a long drag. "He was so kind and courteous. And he made it a mission to make sure I was… well, you know. Taken care of."

"And Daniel's something of a playboy, to put it mildly."

"Yup," she said. "But he was pretty considerate, too. I mean, he arranged for me to meet Mark last night because he felt bad for thinking Mark wasn't interested and made a move first. I mean, that's some sacrifice there. He seemed very keen on me." After a beat she added, "And _he_ wasn't a bad shag, either."

"Just not as good as—wait, _wait_, did you say that the first guy you shagged set you up to meet with the second guy?" Shazzer took her cigarette back. "That's weird and a bit creepy—'hey, she's a good shag, why don't you have a crack at 'er, old boy?'"

"No, it wasn't like that. Daniel did it all without telling Mark, who told me he didn't know what was happening until I showed up. He seemed honestly surprised to see me. I don't think he was faking that."

"And what do each of them do for a living?"

"Daniel works in publishing."

"Ah. Like you."

"Mm-hm. He's an editor. We have a lot in common that way. Mark, on the other hand, is a barrister. He works in human rights law."

Shazzer whistled. "That's a proper job there," she said. "What have you got in common with Mark? Politics?"

Bridget paused. "You know, I don't know," she admitted. "It didn't really come up. But you can't work in human rights without having some compassion for all people. Right? Plus, we're both from Grafton Underwood. Our parents are friends, apparently. He's the one my mum tried to fix me up with."

"Are both of them easy to talk to?"

"Daniel was _sooo_ easy to talk to right away. Mark had a rough start, exterior of ice, but turns out that he was nervous because he fancied me. But he's pretty easy to talk to now, too. He's a good listener."

Shaz smirked a bit, then took another drag and looked thoughtful. "OK. So. Here's my final judgment," she said with a portentous tone, jabbing the cigarette at Bridget emphatically as if she were banging a judge's gavel. "All other things being equal, if you're going to carry on with only one of them right now, go with the better shag."

Bridget laughed out loud.

Just then, her phone began to ring.

…

He wanted to call her.

He didn't want to seem too eager. Desperate.

He stared at his phone, willing it to make a decision for him.

Much to his surprise, it rang.

He cleared his throat, picked up the receiver. "Mark Darcy."

There was silence, then the muffled sound of a chuckle. "I think I'd pay real money to hear you answer with a regular old 'hello'."

Daniel.

"Didn't hear from you about last night," he went on. "How'd things go?"

He thought about how to respond, and decided on, "Very well."

"You hesitated," Daniel said, clearly amused. "That either means it was a disaster, or you shagged her."

"It wasn't a disaster," Mark admitted.

Silence, then, "Oh my God. You're not kidding."

Mark smiled. "No, I'm not." Daniel was quiet, so Mark became a little concerned. "You're not upset, I hope."

"No, no, not upset," Daniel said. "Surprised. And maybe a little sorry, after all, that I didn't get another night."

"She might not even want to see me again," said Mark.

"That's the spirit, mate," said Daniel drolly. "Did you get her number?"

"No."

Daniel laughed. "I suppose I could be persuaded to divulge it. Did you leave yours?"

"Again… no."

"Easily fixable," he said airily. "Call her. Did you stay the night?"

Mark thought back to the night before, to taking his leave in the wee hours with sleepy good-byes and a parting kiss. "Not the whole night."

"Why not? Would breakfast have been that awkward?"

"No. I just didn't want to impose."

Daniel began to chuckle. "Aw, mate."

"Should I have?" Mark said.

"I doubt it would've been a burden," Daniel said. "It was Friday night; it's not like you had to be at work in the morning. Stay the night, get another go in the morning. Simple as."

"I'll take that under advisement," Mark said.

"Bloody lawyer," Daniel said, laughing again. "Here's the number." Mark jotted down the number that Daniel read out. "Give her a call. See if she's free tonight."

"It's a bit late for dinner."

"Then meet for a drink."

"She's probably already got plans."

"You won't know if you don't call."

Daniel had a point.

"Thanks, mate," Mark said. He put the phone down, then picked it up again and dialled.

His heart pounded as it rang once… twice… three times. Then:

"Hello?"

"Hello," he said. "Have I reached Bridget Jones?"

"Yes," she said. "Who's this?"

"It's Mark," he said, then elaborated, "Mark Darcy."

"Oh," she said. "Hi." After a pause—during which he could swear that she covered the mouthpiece, had a muffled conversation—she said, "How are you?"

"I'm well, thank you," he said. "Yourself?"

"I'm—" More muffled sound. "I'm fine."

"Have I… called at a bad time?"

"No, not at all," she said. "One of my girlfriends dropped by, that's all."

"Ah," he said. "I just wanted to know if you were free to go out for a late dinner, or a drink or something."

"Oh." He suspected she covered the mouthpiece again to consult with the friend, but not even her hand was enough to mask the friend's exuberant advice in the affirmative. "Yes, I'm free. Just need about twenty minutes to get ready, if you want to come over…?"

He was smiling like a fool. "All right."

"Do you remember where my flat is?"

"Of course," he said. "I'll see you then."

…

"Shazzer. You have to go."

"Not a chance in hell," she said. "I have _got_ to stick around to see what this guy looks like."

Bridget pushed air out through her teeth. There would be no convincing her to go, and time was of the essence. "Fine. One condition. Tidy up my sitting room."

"It's a deal."

Bridget ran into her loo—a disaster since he'd gone, which she cleared by throwing it all in the laundry bin—and threw on a quick layer of makeup and powder, mascara and a bit of shadow. She brushed her hair, which was behaving itself; _thank God I took a shower this afternoon_. She then went to her bedroom, gathered up all of the scattered clothes and pitched them, too, into the laundry bin. Amazing how much she'd made a mess of it, considering she had just tidied in anticipation of Daniel the night before. She plumped up her pillows, pulled her sheets and duvet taut, turned on the bedside lamp. She then looked for her black miniskirt and bright pink top.

_Clean stockings. Clean stockings_.

She searched in vain and found only a pair of clean black tights. She pulled them up and stepped into a pair of low heels.

Just as her entryphone went off.

"I'll get it!" sing-songed Shazzer.

"No!"

But she was too late. Shazzer had picked it up.

"Yes?" she asked, then paused. "Yes, who may I say is calling?... and she's expecting y—?"

At that point she grabbed the receiver. "Hello, hi."

"Bridget?" This time she recognised his voice.

"Yes, it is," she said, pressing the buzzer. "Come on up."

She turned and glared at Shazzer. "Behave yourself. You were just going, so put on your damn jacket and—"

Then came the knock at the front door. Bridget went down the small set of stairs to open it.

"Hi," he said with a warm smile, then his gaze connected with something over her shoulder. "Oh. Hello."

"Hey there," came Shazzer's voice.

"Come on in," Bridget said, leading him up into her flat proper. "Shazzer here was just leaving."

"'Shazzer'?"

"Nickname for 'Sharon,'" explained Shazzer, sticking out a hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mark."

He blinked in surprise, shaking her hand. "Pleased to meet you, too."

"Hmm," Shazzer said approvingly. Bridget was sure she'd hear what this was about later.

"_Leaving_," stressed Bridget.

"Bye, Bridge," Shazzer said, before grabbing her handbag, heading down the stairs, then leaving.

Bridget turned around to face him.

"Sorry about that," she said.

"Don't apologise," he said. "You look nice."

She wondered what her hair was doing after her mad dash across the flat, and self-consciously, she smoothed it down. "Thanks," she said brightly. "You look pretty nice yourself."

And he did, if not as casual as she was expecting: he wore a pale blue button-down shirt with no tie, but with a dark navy suit jacket and matching trousers.

"So," she asked, "what did you have in mind?"

…

He was not proud of the thought that raced through his head: wanting to take her in his arms and kiss her passionately—

And then she clarified, "For drinks? Where did you want to go?"

"I'm… ah, I'm sorry. I had thought the May Fair Bar, but…"

"Bit posh."

"Bit of a drive away," he finished.

She flushed red. "Oh."

"I mean, if you'd _really_ like to go there…"

"There's a pub downstairs," she said; he had seen it but not really noticed it. "And The George down the street." A slow smile found her lips. "Does one of those work for you?"

"Yes, indeed. Whichever you prefer."

The pub downstairs was nothing terribly special; they had the lighting just right, about as smoky inside as he might have expected, and they had a decent top shelf scotch. The noise level was surprisingly sedate for a Saturday night. All of the tables appeared to be occupied. "They make a mean cosmo," Bridget confided, as she reached and took her drink from the bar. She raised her glass. "Cheers."

He touched his tumbler to her cosmopolitan. "Cheers."

They moved away from the bar to allow other patrons to order their drinks. As he took a sip, his gaze remained on her; she noticed him looking at her, and she smiled. "I'm glad you called," she said.

"I'm glad you were available," he said. He struggled with what to say, settled on, "Your friend seems nice."

Bridget burst out with a little laugh. "I love Shazzer, but 'nice' is not the first word I'd think of to describe her," she explained. "I'm sure she'd love to hear you say that, though."

"Have you known her long?"

"Hmmm," she said, looking thoughtful. "I met her shortly after I got to London, about… four years ago? We were both interviewing for the same job. Neither of us got the job, but we hit it off straight away." She seemed to be ready to say something more, but instead pulled her lower lip between her teeth, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"What is it?"

Her cheeks went pink again. "I was going to ask you about how long you've known Daniel, to be honest. But I thought maybe it wasn't a good idea to mention him, you know. Bit weird to bring up."

"It's all right," he said gently. "I've known him as long as I can remember. Sort of like a brother to me."

"Oh," she said. "I thought maybe you'd met in lower sixth."

He shook his head. "Primary school on up. As for Cambridge, we both applied, both got accepted," he said, then added sheepishly, "You know, he gave me your number. He suggested I call."

"Oh, I never did give it to you, did I?" She laughed lightly, swirling her drink around. "Well, I guess he really isn't bothered by this. You taking me out again, I mean."

"He's not."

She tilted her head back to empty her glass, as he drank from his own.

"Would you care for another?"

"Mm, I would, thank you."

He went back to the bar, asked for a second of each, then brought it back to the general area where he'd left her standing. She wasn't there.

"Over here."

He turned to find she'd secured a booth. She was grinning. He smiled a little sheepishly as he placed her drink down before her, then took a seat across the table.

"Did you think I'd gone?" she asked with a giggle.

"I did wonder," he admitted.

"You looked stricken," she said, reaching across the table to place a hand on his. "This table just opened up and I made a run for it."

He laughed lightly again, then sipped the scotch, felt it further working its way into his system. He felt more relaxed, a little less inhibited. "I was glad to see you sitting there," he said, turning his hand over to better hold her hand properly. "I really enjoy spending time with you."

"I've enjoyed it too," she said, grinning crookedly. Then she shifted a little in her seat. "Is that good? I mean, for scotch?"

"Very good," he said. "Single malt, twenty-five year cask-aged—"

He stopped suddenly when he felt her unshod foot—specifically, her toes—touching his shin, then rising up.

"Cask-aged?"

"Yes," he said. "Imbues it with a certain flavour. The wooden cask is often oak."

"Ah." Now her toes were against his knee, the knee closest to the window, and with her legs clad in dark black stockings and his own dark trousers, her actions would be unlikely to have been seen by other pub-goers. Then her foot was against his inner thigh. "Do you like that?"

He sensed, given the low timbre of her voice, that she did not mean the scotch any longer. "Yes."

The booth was small enough that she was able to reach a bit higher than that. He nearly dropped his tumbler. She giggled, moving her toes against him, causing an unfortunately timed reaction.

He knocked back most of his drink in one long swallow.

"Perhaps you should work on your drink, too," he said quietly.

"I thought you liked that," she said.

"Yes," he said. "But I need to be able to walk out of here with something resembling dignity."

She laughed lightly again, then withdrew her foot and sat up straight. "I'm sorry."

He couldn't help but grin at her. "I don't think you're at all sorry."

Her own impish grin confirmed this suspicion.

By the time they finished their respective drinks he was in fact able to escort her out without issue. They left the pub and went directly around to the private building entrance. Barely inside her flat, barely having divested themselves of their outerwear, she was snaking her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a kiss.

Their physical compatibility was undeniable, and there was no doubt he was smitten.

As silly as it was after two nights together, he might even have been falling a little bit in love.

…

Mark had stayed the night, this time.

After several rounds of energetic shagging—_note to self_, she thought, _pick up more condoms_—they'd eventually drifted off to exhausted sleep. When she woke to see the glow of the sun highlightig the edges of her blinds, he was still fast asleep, so she dressed in her robe, went to wash her face, clean her teeth, and then make some coffee for them. As she waited for it to brew, she felt his arm come up around her and plant a kiss into her hair.

"Morning," he said.

"Hey," she said, turning to face him. He had a blanket draped around his waist; he looked bloody sexy, she didn't mind admitting. "How do you like your coffee?"

"Black, thank you."

"No milk, no sugar?"

"That is generally understood what is meant by 'black coffee,'" he said with a smirk.

She reached to pull down two mugs; with some amusement, she wondered to herself what kind of psychopath doesn't take milk or sugar in coffee. "I have chocolate croissants and some little pots of yoghurt, if you're hungry," she said, pouring both mugs. "I'm not much of a cook, to be honest."

"It's all right," he said. "A croissant and some yoghurt will do nicely."

"Great," she said. "I can bring that to you, if you want to have a seat on the sofa or something."

"You're sure I can't help in some way?"

She shook her head. "Really, no trouble."

He looked like he might insist, but then he took the coffee and walked towards the sofa. She took out a couple of croissants from the freezer and set them to defrosting in the microwave, before reaching for a pair of blueberry yoghurt cups and spoons.

When she carried over the loaded plates, she saw that he was not in fact on the sofa, but standing beside the window, peering out over her Borough Market neighbourhood. She let her gaze settle on the lines of his body, his brown hair lit up chestnut in the oblique sunlight. He really was a lovely specimen of a man.

"Here you are," she said softly, interrupting his thoughts; he turned to face her, then smiled.

"Thank you," he said, reaching for the plate.

She took a seat on her sofa, and she indicated he could sit beside her, which he did. After setting his coffee onto the low table in front of him, he tucked into his breakfast. They both did.

He seemed quite pleased with the breakfast, alternating bites of croissant and spoonfuls of yoghurt between sips of coffee.

"Did you sleep all right?" she asked suddenly.

"Mm, yes," he said. "Very comfortably." Then he smiled a little. "I mean, when we slept."

She felt a blush warm her cheeks. "I'd apologise," she said, "but once again, I'm not sorry."

"Nor am I," he said. Finished, he set the plate, spoon, and cup down. "I'm… sure you have plenty of things planned for today, so perhaps I should find my clothes—"

"No."

"No?"

"I don't have plenty of things planned for today," she said, smiling, as she tugged on her robe's belt to loosen it, then pulled the halves aside to bare a wide stripe of skin to her waist. She then leaned back against the arm of the sofa. "Just the one."

"Ah," he said, his gaze fixed appreciatively upon her.

…

It was the sort of thing Mark could get used to, staying up too late finding absolute rapture in the arms of a beautiful young woman, then waking up to do it all over again.

Daniel's prediction for staying the night had been accurate. Mark had had no expectations, but had been very pleased for their time together after breakfast. Reluctantly, he had bid her goodbye just after midday. He'd figured that if he accepted lunch at her flat, the cycle might never end. Not that that would be such a bad thing, but he did have some things that he needed to do to prepare for work the following day.

Unfortunately, he was very much distracted from that work preparation by thoughts of the night before and of the morning. He hoped that Daniel would call to ask about it. Calling Daniel to talk about it would feel too much like bragging.

Daniel did call, just before suppertime.

"I would have called sooner," he said laconically, "but my Sunday was spent in the company of a sexy and _very_ talented girl. How about yours?"

"I followed your advice," he said. "Stayed over."

"And? How was breakfast?"

"Exceptional."

"_That_ is more like it," said Daniel.

"I think I might be falling for her," Mark said suddenly. Not even he knew from where the desire to say that had come.

Daniel was quiet for the longest time. "Mark," he said. "I know it's been a while since you've been with a girl, but take my advice: do not confuse having a good time—and a few rounds of amazing shagging—over one weekend with anything like love."

"It hasn't 'been a while,'" Mark said defensively.

"It has," he retorted. "In fact, I believe I can remember the exact date. New Year's Eve, ringing in 1982."

"I'm not dignifying that with a confirmation," Mark said, though suspected Daniel was right.

"She happened to mention to me," Daniel said, "that she'd just come off of a seven-year relationship with her uni boyfriend. Right now, she's looking for fun."

"She told you that?"

"No, but it's obvious to me," Daniel said. "Just be careful, mate."

"I'll be careful," he said. "Don't worry."

Mark, of course, did not really know what it meant to be careful in this regard.

…

"Sooooo? What time did he go?"

Bridget took a long drag off of her cigarette, a smirk playing on her lips.

"About noon," she said, exhaling a stream of smoke.

Shazzer whistled. "Did he continue to live up to expectations?"

"Exceeded," Bridget said, showing off a twin to the love bite she'd shown off the day before. "Gonna be hard to top, to be honest."

Shazzer began giggling. "You said 'top.'"

She leant over and playfully smacked her forearm. "So what was that about last night?" Bridget asked. "When you shook his hand?"

"Oh, right!" Shazzer said. "He's got nice hands, very smooth, very well-groomed… and _very_ long fingers." She waggled her brows, as she waggled her fingers. "We know what that means."

She laughed low in her throat. "You're not wrong."

"Ooh." Shazzer had a gleam in her eye. "Maybe if you get bored with him, send 'im my way?"

Bridget didn't commit to an answer, just grinned impishly and took another long drag. She was not going to get bored any time soon.

**Fast-Forward**

_2005_

"Darling."

Bridget came out of her fugue to see her husband looking at her from across the bedroom with some concern.

"Yes, sorry, what were you saying?"

He chuckled, coming to sit beside her on the bed; he was freshly shaved and smelled delightful, that crisp, clean scent that seemed so uniquely his. "I was asking you what was on your mind," he said. "You were a million miles away."

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, trying to figure out just how to explain it. "Remember when I told you," she began, "that you were supposed to have come to my twenty-fourth birthday party, but didn't?"

He nodded. "I had just accepted a job in New York," he said. "Didn't come back to the UK for a while."

"My mum said something that I can't stop thinking of," she said. "That if we'd met then, maybe we would have got together sooner, and married even sooner than we did. We wouldn't have had to deal with all of the bullshit relationship stuff that we dealt with instead."

"It's possible," he said thoughtfully. "But it's also possible that all of that 'relationship bullshit,' as you put it, helped to bring us together in a more meaningful way."

She wasn't entirely sure she believed it. "Surely suffering through the experience with your ex-wife and Daniel—and me suffering through Daniel, come to think of it—didn't actually somehow pave the way to us getting together."

"I'm not saying it did," he said. "But I was certainly not the same person I was at thirty than I am now." He seemed as contemplative as she had been moments before. "Perhaps we would have got together then, but would it have been something that lasted? Be honest to yourself about the person you were at twenty-four."

"What are you saying, Mark?" she asked. "That I was too young to have a _real_ relationship, too—?"

"I'm not saying anything of the sort," he said placatingly. "I just don't want you to get into catastrophic thinking about what might have been, instead of what _is_. Have you ever heard the saying, 'Everything happens for a reason'?"

She grinned. "I thought you thought that concept was bollocks."

"It usually is," he said with a small smile, taking her hand. "But for you and me, I think we came together exactly when we needed to."

**Rewind**

_April, 1986_

Way to ruin everything.

He had taken her out several more times—even for lunch, even without the faintest glimmer of hope for sex—and had enjoyed every moment of every date with her. It was on a Friday night, three weeks after they'd first gone out, that he'd apparently said exactly the wrong thing.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" she asked sharply, bringing her brows together in a scowl.

He strove to think what he could have said to elicit such a response. "I just asked if you liked your salmon dish."

"No, no, not that part," she said. "The other part. 'Darling.'"

He hadn't even been aware he'd said it, and in any case—"What's wrong with 'darling'?"

The furrow in her brow deepened. "That's something you… I don't know, call your _girlfriend_."

Now it was his turn to be confused. "We've been going out regularly for almost a month," he said. "I sort of took it as read that you were my girlfriend."

She looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I… oh, shit." She took in a deep breath. "Mark, I'm sorry, but this, you and me, this is meant to be _fun_."

"It _has_ been fun," he said. "But it's also been more than that."

She shook her head. "I never wanted any strings attached. I am sorry I didn't make that more clear, or if I ever gave you the wrong impression," she said. She set down her fork. "Shit. I should probably go."

"Please don't," he said. "I mean, finish your dinner at least. I'll take you straight home after."

She pushed back her chair. "I've lost my appetite. Sorry."

With that, she rose and strode towards the exit of the restaurant.

Bloody Daniel, right again.

He stood, too, throwing his napkin down next to his plate to catch her up in the restaurant foyer. "Bridget," he said. She paused, then turned around.

"What?"

"Look, I'm sorry if I came on stronger that you were expecting," he said. He took in a deep breath. "If 'no strings' is what you want, then I can do that, if it means I get to keep seeing you."

"No, Mark. _No_. That isn't what you want. I couldn't carry on knowing you'd always be hoping for more. You wouldn't be happy." After a pause, she said, "Would you want to keep seeing me, knowing you weren't the only one?"

Not the only man?

"What?" he asked, his voice a whisper.

"I think you heard me," she said. "I've had a nice time with you—better than a nice time, if I'm honest—but I can't do 'exclusive' or 'relationship' right now. I can't." She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, considering her next words carefully. "Please don't call me, okay? Let's not make it messier than it is."

With that, she offered a little smile, then turned and exited. He watched her leave, feeling utterly devastated. He returned to his table, signalling the waiter towards him.

"I'd like to settle the bill," he said.

"Was dinner not to your satisfaction? Your lady friend's?"

"The meal was fine," he said. "Just don't have much of an appetite to finish it, that's all."

_Should have taken that bloody job in New York_, he thought.

…

"Hello?" There was no response over the phone line to this greeting, so he added, "Daniel Cleaver speaking. Who's there?"

"Daniel? It's Bridget."

Daniel sat up a little bit straighter. "Bridget? Bridget Jones? To what do I owe this honour?"

"I thought you better hear it from me first," she said. "I won't be seeing Mark anymore."

_Oh no_. "You don't have to explain," he said. "I did try to warn him."

"Warn him? What?"

"That you had just broken up with some idiotic bloke after years, and you probably didn't want anything more than to, shall we say, play the field. I mean, that's my _raison d'être_. So I understand."

He heard her chuckle. "So you're not going to hate me."

"Of course not," he said sympathetically.

There was a very long pause before she said, "I'm free tonight if you are. I mean, since my previous date was cut short."

His brows went up. "Now _that_ is an offer I cannot refuse."

"Though… don't mention this to Mark," she said. "I don't think he'd take it at all well."

"My lips are sealed," he said, "at least until I get to your flat."

…

_Bridget, have you lost your mind?_

She looked in the mirror, asking this question of herself.

It seemed like a great idea in the moment, and oh God, did she feel like a shag… _and_ she knew without a doubt that Daniel wasn't going to pull the same kind of relationship surprise on her. But had it been wise?

She had really liked Mark, too; funny, kind, considerate, courteous, and smoking hot in bed. Why had he needed to complicate everything?

"Ughhhh," she said. "_Men_."

To make herself feel better, she flipped her radio on; as if a sign, Samantha Fox's infectious dance hit "Touch Me" revived her wavering resolve and with a smile, she began to dance around a bit. She touched up her makeup with some powder, brushed her hair, spritzed another mist of perfume over herself. She looked at herself in the full length mirror, then slipped out of the stockings she'd been wearing. With a wicked grin, she also slipped out of her pants.

She switched the bedside lamp on, and had just poured a couple of glasses of wine when her entryphone went off.

"Who's there?" she asked cautiously.

"Are you expecting someone else?"

Daniel. She buzzed him in. "Come on up."

She went down to meet him at the door. Upon answering the door, his gaze immediately went to her legs. "Bare. Hmm."

"'Hmm,' indeed," she said, stepping back. "Come on in."

"You look… _smell_… delicious."

She grinned. "Thank you."

He kicked the door closed behind him.

"Come here. Let's have a taste."

…

He should have known better. After all, he had been warned.

He felt like an absolute fool.

One thing for which Mark was grateful was that he had not told his parents that he'd been seeing Bridget; given what he knew now, he was certain she wouldn't have told her parents. It would have been too embarrassing to face everyone, otherwise.

He thought about what she'd said, about seeing other men simultaneously to him, and also thought about Daniel, who'd casually mentioned that he'd spent one Sunday afternoon with a talented, sexy young lady.

Daniel wouldn't have done that to him.

Would he have?

Mark picked up his handset, dialled Daniel's number. It rang and rang until the answerphone picked up.

"Daniel, Mark here. Have an important question for you. Please give me a call as soon as you hear this. Thanks."

When it became clear that Daniel was out for the evening, Mark took the ill-advised step heading for his study and reaching for the bottle of scotch there, bypassing the tumbler altogether.

It was some time after sunrise when the ringing of Mark's phone stirred him from an alcohol-induced slumber and back into a reality in which his head was pounding and his mouth was as dry as cotton. He pushed himself upright, and reached for the telephone receiver.

"Darcy," he said, his voice like gravel.

"_Mate_. You sound rough."

"Daniel, morning," he said, running a hand over his face. "Sorry. I'm _feeling_ rough."

"Afternoon," he corrected. "Sorry to hear it. Was just returning your call."

He sighed, the events of the night before coming back to him. "First of all—do not say 'I told you so'."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said.

"And be totally honest."

"Of course. What's going on?"

"Bridget ended things with me yesterday… and hinted that she's been seeing other men at the same time she was seeing me," he said, his heart heavy to realise it all over again. "Was one of those men you?"

"No," he said without hesitation. "I'd never do that to you."

Mark felt instant relief. In the light of day, it made sense; why would Daniel have pushed him towards Bridget if he was still seeing her? "Thank you," he said. "I hope you're not offended that I asked."

"No. Of course not," he said. "Say, how about some lunch?"

"I feel like death," Mark said. "I don't want to go anywhere."

"Let me come there. I'll bring some takeaway. You, meantime, go have a shower and a shave."

…

Daniel could not deny that felt a little guilty for spending the night with the girl who had just broken his best friend's heart, but Daniel was a weak-willed man, she was beautiful, and she had asked him over. He hadn't lied; he had not in fact slept with her during the three weeks that Mark had been. He had just omitted the tiny, _tiny_ fact that he had jumped at the chance to be with her the moment Mark was out of the picture. What Mark didn't know couldn't hurt him.

He decided to pick up a pair of curries—mild for Mark, screaming hot for himself—then made his way over to Mark's place. When he rapped at the door, Mark called out from within, "Come in."

He found his friend in the study. The position of the bottle of scotch close to where he was seated was a bit troubling. "Hope you're not starting in on that already," Daniel said darkly.

"No," he said, though he was not convincing. "All right, maybe a little. To take the edge off of the headache. The shower wasn't enough."

Daniel swept up the bottle and stocked it back where Mark usually kept it. "That's enough," he said. "You can't completely lose your mind over this." He set down the carrier bag. "Eat. You'll feel better."

"I'm sure it's easy for you to say," Mark said, reaching for the bag, fishing out the takeaway container marked MILD. "You go through women like some people go through facial tissue."

"You wound me," Daniel said, placing a hand over his heart. "Believe it or not, it's _not_ easy for me. It still hurts when one of them says that they don't want to see me anymore. Rejection always hurts. The key is to get back onto the horse and keep riding."

"You are a fount of clichés," Mark said, then sighed. "You did warn me to be careful."

"I told you I'd never say 'I told you so.'"

"But."

Daniel shrugged. "You can't put yourself out there without getting hurt once in a while," he said. "It's not realistic. The alternative is to not feel anything. To never experience lust or love. You're not a robot."

Daniel was all too familiar with what the sight of Mark's tensing jaw meant. Considering what to say. Considering his options.

"Sometimes I think things would be much easier if I were," Mark said at last.

"You might as well have been for the last few years," Daniel said. He sat, began opening his own takeaway container. "Look. I know what she said wasn't what you wanted to hear, but it was honestly good for you to let loose for a bit. I promise this isn't the end of the world."

"How do you know what she said to me?" Mark said, furrowing his brow.

Daniel's mind raced. Who had told him what? "You told me," he said smoothly, far more confidently than he felt. Then he added, "About the other men?"

His burgeoning anger deflated. "Right."

"Come on. Eat. You'll feel less morose with your blood sugar not in the toilet."

…

Daniel was right. Eating did help him feel better. He realised he had eaten nothing since leaving the restaurant last night; dinner that he had not even finished. Indeed, it was not the end of the world, and knew that time would heal the wound.

He also knew that he had no desire to experience it again. Had the highs—the sex, the intimacy, the fun—been worth the lows? The pain of rejection for what felt like no reason at all did not feel worth it at all. Logically, he knew her feelings on the matter were very valid. Emotionally, though, he felt he had done everything right, and it had been all for naught.

This was the day his heart began to harden.


	3. Somewhere Ages and Ages Hence

**Chapter 3: Somewhere Ages and Ages Hence**

**Fast-Forward **

_January, 1995_

Different year, same train ride.

Normally, the rhythm of the train threatened to lull her back to sleep, but today, it only made her feel like she might vomit after last night's drinking binge. She'd barely put together a matching outfit from her clean clothes, and had no patience for her hair except to clip it up. The thought of putting eyeshadow on was more than she could bear.

Why had she agreed to spend New Year's Day this way?

_Because you love your parents_, she thought. _Even if your mum does drive you crazy_.

She didn't look forward to the relentless barrage of the usual questions: _Have you finally got a boyfriend? When are you getting married? When do we hear the pitter-patter of little feet?_ She didn't get these questions when she was younger; then again, she was now in her thirties. Her sell-by date was expired, or close to it, in their eyes.

Once at Kettering Station, she scanned the crowd for her dad, then remembered that he'd told her he wasn't going to be able to meet her. She sighed and wandered towards the station front in the hopes of snagging a taxi.

_It's my lucky day_, she thought wryly as she climbed into the only taxi waiting at the kerbside.

There was a moment when she absolutely blanked on the address of her parents' friends, the Alconburys, but fortunately, it came to her, and the taxi was off towards the village in which she'd grown up.

She was greeted at the door by a very enthusiastic Una Alconbury, who had clearly _not_ gone out drinking the night before; she was as bubbly and as tinkly as ever in her brightly coloured polyester two-piece.

"Bridget!" she said. "We'd almost given you up for lost!"

Every year. Every year, Una greeted her with this, and she could only smile at the tired attempt at humour. "Hello, Auntie Una," she said, kissing her over the cheek.

"Come on, let's get a drink in you," she said confidentially. "You look like you could use one. Care for a bloody one?"

_Great_, Bridget thought. _I look as terrible as I feel_. "Yes, please," she said.

"Say no more," Una said with a wink. "Your dad's here somewhere, and your mum's in the kitchen."

"Ooh, you'd better go make sure she's not trying to Magimix the gravy."

Una gasped, brought her hand to her chest, then dashed away.

She looked around for her dad—and found someone else instead, someone she hadn't seen in more years than she cared to think of, pouring himself a glass of wine. At the same time she saw him, he saw her, and her automatic reaction was to offer a pleasant smile. He looked away, then looked back at her, as if he'd wanted to pretend he hadn't seen her, but seemed to realise a half-second later that the party was too small to pretend such a thing.

"Mark," she said as she approached. He looked much the same, though grey had started to pepper the hair at his temples, and the lines in his face had deepened as he'd approached forty. _Still fit_, she thought. _Still trim. Still fond of suit jackets_. "Hi."

His mouth pulled tightly into a line, which was unsurprising, given their last conversation, way back when in the restaurant. He could hardly be faulted for failing to smile. "Hello, Bridget," he said coolly, recorking the wine bottle.

"I thought that was you," she said. "How are you?"

He shot his gaze back to her; his eyes were dark and unreadable. "I'm well," he said at last. "You?"

She sensed that the tale of her wretched hangover would not spark amusement in him. "I'm all right, thanks."

His manners kicked in; he indicated the wine bottles, all reds. "May I pour you a glass?"

"No, thanks," she said, striving for lightness. "Una's fetching me a Bloody Mary." Her mind went blank as far as conversation went, until—"Still practising law?"

"Yes," he said.

She expected him to return the question, but he didn't. "I'm still in publishing," she offered. "I'm working—" She stopped short. She wasn't sure whether mentioning that she was working with Daniel Cleaver would prod a sore spot. "—as a sub-editor."

"Bridget," he said brusquely. "I'd rather not do this."

"Do what?" she asked.

"Offering to pour your drink is one thing. Small talk is another thing—" he began, then dropped his voice. "—because I'd really rather not talk to you."

With that, he walked away.

She blinked in her disbelief; she understood his not smiling, but the rudeness, the incivility with which he had just treated her was beyond anything she would have expected from the polite and courteous man she'd briefly known. Just then, Una appeared with the drink, which she accepted gratefully. "Saw you talking with Mark," she said. "Sorry."

"Sorry?"

"He's always such a grump at these things," Una said, waving her hand dismissively. "I'm not sure why he bothers to come. For his parents, I wager. All he does is work."

She didn't know why, but she suddenly asked, "Is he married?"

Una laughed gaily. "Mark? _No_. Hasn't time for a wife. Or a girlfriend. His poor mother despairs ever having a grandchild." She seemed far more gleeful than the situation called for. "Honestly, I'm not sure there's a woman alive who could stand being near him for more than ten minutes."

"Oh," she said, confused and dismayed at this assessment.

"He won't talk about it," she went on in a quiet tone, "but his mother thinks he had one bad relationship sour him for ever. Oooh. Now I think of it, didn't Pam try to set _you_ up with him?" She then chuckled a little too loudly. "Looks like you really dodged a bullet there, eh? Eh?"

Una was still laughing as she fluttered away to further mingle. Bridget's thoughts were in a whirl. One bad relationship? Could this have possibly been referring to her?

_Even if it __was__ me_, she thought defiantly, _this is not my fault_. People split up with their partners, lovers, and spouses all the time when they realise they don't want the same things. Rejection doesn't automatically transform the rejected into emotional pillars of granite or total arseholes.

Seeing him again, though, had served to pour salt into a long-forgotten wound. Bridget had not realised what she'd had with Mark—what she _might_ have had with him—until it was much too late. She had not wanted nor had she been looking for another relationship on the heels of the one that had just ended, a goal that had seemed completely reasonable at the time. Ultimately, though, the fun she'd wanted to have had not brought her any long-term satisfaction. She'd spent the better part of five years having a lot of casual, no-strings sex with men, including Daniel Cleaver. Once she'd gotten that out of her system, once she'd been ready and serious about looking for a relationship again, she found that the landscape of prospective partners had dried up like a desert; again, including Daniel Cleaver. She'd expected that, though; Daniel had always been clear about what he wanted, and didn't hold it against her when she'd decided just sex was no longer enough. They'd remained friendly, at least.

But oh, how frivolously she had spent the currency of youth. Life lesson learned.

She'd thought about Mark every once in a while; the pain of the biggest regret of her twenties had lessened, though, as the years had passed. Seeing Mark today had refreshed that pain. And as much as he didn't want to talk to her, she suddenly felt like she needed to talk to him. Maybe an apology for how she'd treated him would help melt the ice.

She looked over to him again, swore she saw him glancing at her.

…

Mark couldn't say that she was the last person he'd expected to see at this gathering of family friends, but seeing her had surprised him.

Rather, his reaction to seeing her.

He had told himself he hadn't actually cared about her, that she hadn't actually been as pretty as he'd remembered her to be, that all of the things he'd thought were special about her had just been the product of the imagination of a man who was desperate for physical attention and, frankly, grateful for sex. When it slipped via a careless comment from Daniel that she had started sleeping with Daniel again, Mark was not entirely shocked. Although he had never confronted Daniel about it directly—Daniel and Bridget were, after all, consenting adults who did not want an actual relationship—it had caused Mark to distance himself from his friend.

Given all of this, it was surprising to feel something close to a spark of pleasure to see her again. She was casually dressed in a snug jumper and leggings, her hair twisted up and held into place by a barrette; she wore nothing like shadow or liner on her eyes, just a pale pink gloss on her lips.

She _was_ actually as pretty as he'd remembered her to be.

He looked to her once more just to make sure he hadn't imagined seeing her.

_Still here_, he thought; at that moment, she was nursing her drink. _Looking at me_.

Mark considered just leaving, but he was hungry; more importantly, he didn't want to strand his parents here. People were starting to queue for lunch, so he decided to join it.

"Hello again."

She had joined the queue directly behind him. He said nothing, did nothing in response.

"I'd really rather not to talk to your back," she said.

He turned. "Perhaps I was not clear. I—"

"I'm not interested in polite small talk either," she said. "You don't have to talk at all. Just listen."

Intriguing. "Not here, not now," he said, facing forward again.

"Una noticed us talking earlier," she said. "Apparently you talking with anyone at this sort of thing is noteworthy."

"And yet you're talking to me right now. I suspect you would prefer _not_ to be overheard," he said in a low tone, referring to the queue before and behind them.

A long pause, then, "Fine. I'll go out for a cigarette after I eat. Meet me outside."

At this he reached the buffet table. He grabbed a plate and loaded it with the curry, then found his parents to sit with. His mother seemed to be scrutinising him.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said. "I just noticed you talking with Bridget. Didn't know you had retained an acquaintance."

"I hadn't," he said. Bridget hadn't been exaggerating; his talking with her had been noticed. "Just… small talk."

"Oh."

Conversation moved onto trivial things that he was able to tune out as he ate; he had no interest in the details of Penny Husbands-Bosworth's upcoming surgery or Una's planned holiday down the Nile. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bridget move out of the room; in the foyer, she slipped on her coat and went outside through the front door.

He didn't immediately jump up. It would have been far too suspicious. He ate a few more bites to clear the plate, then rose. "If you're done, I can take your plate away," he said.

"Thank you, Mark."

He delivered the plates to the kitchen, then slipped out of the front door.

She sat there on the low stone wall, out of sight of the picture window, taking a long draw on a cigarette. "All right," he said gruffly. "What is it that you want to say?"

"That I'm sorry," she said, exhaling. "That's all. I treated you terribly, and I've regretted it deeply for years. I could grovel, make excuses, try to explain, but there'd be no point." She took another drag. He was too stunned to respond or even move. She turned to look at him, as if surprised that he hadn't immediately gone back inside. "Well. You don't have to listen to anything more or look at my face ever again. Cheers."

"I—"

"No," she interrupted, stabbing her cigarette in his direction. "You don't have to say anything. Truly. You don't even have to accept the apology. I just needed to say it. You should go back in before anyone notices you're out here with me. Whatever would they say?"

Without another word, he turned to slip back into the house.

…

That was not as cathartic as she would have hoped.

She exhaled one last lungful of smoke, then stubbed out the butt end.

But then the front door of the house opened again. It was Mark.

"You know what? You don't get to have the last word again," he said, his voice cool. "No. I _don't_ accept your apology. You are gravely mistaken if you think I am compelled in any way to accept it. I am not doing that just to assuage your guilt."

The silence when he stopped talking was resounding.

"Are you quite finished?" she asked, feeling suddenly defensive.

"Yes."

"Off you pop, then," she said, waving her hand, as if to brush him back into the direction of the house.

He didn't move.

"I told you, you don't need to accept it," she said, her voice quite level. "I just needed you to know I was sorry."

"And it's not nearly enough when you destroyed my heart," he said tersely.

With that, he went inside again.

She felt conflicted. She told herself that she didn't _really_ care; that she had barely given him a thought in almost a decade. But she had never before really known the extent to which she had actually hurt him. Guilt washed over her. _Destroyed my heart._ How that might have directly contributed to the coldness, the rudeness, the _anger_ that he carried around with him now.

Maybe it was her fault.

She had never _intended_ to hurt him, but she had, and badly. She had never told him she was not looking for a serious relationship; perhaps she should have, up front, right from the start. Of _course_ that was what Mark had been looking for. Now that she was in her thirties, that's what she was looking for, too.

And she actually hated that he hadn't accepted the apology, because it meant that they still had unfinished business.

Maybe she should have tried to grovel a bit.

"Well, _fuck_," she muttered, throwing down the snuffed butt.

**Fast-Forward**

_2006_

"Can I ask you a question?"

He shifted against her as they snuggled together in bed, then pressed a kiss against her temple. "Always."

"Is there anything I could do that would an absolute deal-breaker? Like, the one thing you could never, ever forgive me for?"

"Aside from ending a sentence with a preposition?" he teased. He pushed himself up onto his elbow. "I don't know. I have a hard time imagining you being capable of doing anything I couldn't forgive. Why?" He narrowed his eyes, but the corners of his mouth were turned up. "What are you planning?"

She giggled. "Not planning anything," she said. "Well. Except perhaps to…." She then waggled her eyebrows.

**Rewind**

_March, 1995_

Fuck. Was he going to turn up everywhere now like a bad penny?

It was her night to shine: a book launch for the first major book she had undertaken editing all on her own, from a very promising new author who had garnered a ton of buzz in advance of the book's release. And, if she did say so herself, she looked amazing in her new black dress, silky and flattering to her body, with off-the-shoulder sleeves and a plunging neckline.

However, there, standing next to a dark-haired woman amongst a gaggle of authors, was Mark Darcy, listening intently with a figurative grey storm cloud over his head.

Fortunately, he hadn't seen her yet. Bridget made excuses and went off to the editor-in-chief, her boss, who also happened to have a vested interest in this development.

"Mr Cleaver, may I have a word?"

"Of course, Ms Jones," he said smoothly, then extended his elbow as if to escort her into a ballroom. When they were in a little more of a private area, just off of the main room, he asked her, "What's wrong?"

"Why do you ask if something's wrong?"

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Ghost of shags past," she said, trying to make a joke. "Guess who's turned up?"

"Not a clue, Jones."

"Mark."

He brought his brows together. "Mark? Mark _Darcy_? _That_ Mark?"

She nodded.

"Huh. Wonder what brings him here. I'm certain this book would not be up his street. Surely he can't be here to see me." She knew that Daniel had suspected long ago that Mark had somehow found out that she had started to sleep with Daniel again, even though it had never been anything Mark had asked directly about.

"Or me," she said.

"No offense, love," he said kindly, "but you even less."

"I just wanted to warn you," she said. "After New Year's." She had already told him what had happened on New Year's Day. Told him about the apology, and the lack of its acceptance.

"Thanks," he said, then sighed. "Maybe I'll just go and say hello."

_It's your head_, she thought.

…

"Well, it's been a bit of time, hasn't it?"

Mark turned to see Daniel Cleaver standing there, a smile on his face; oddly, it seemed genuine, which Mark wasn't expecting. He smiled guardedly in return. "Hello, Cleaver."

Daniel held out his hand, and he found himself accepting it for a handshake. "Hello, Mark," he said. "It's good to see you. I'm _surprised_ to see you. Do you attend many book launches?"

"I came with a colleague from chambers, Natasha," he said. "And the book is very good. At least what I read. I borrowed Natasha's advanced reader copy."

"We're very proud of it, and of our editor for this particular book."

"Oh, I didn't realise…" Mark began, trailing off a little. "This is your publishing house."

"Well. Not _mine_," Daniel said with a grin. "I'm just the editor-in-chief."

"That's not 'just' anything," Mark said. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," he said. "Look, I've missed seeing you around. Let's grab a drink some time. Or a football match. You still go to those, right?"

"Haven't been to one in years," Mark admitted. "Just occasionally watch on the telly. But I'd like that."

"Great," Daniel said. "Same flat, same number." Daniel seemed as if he was about to move away to mingle with the crowd, but at the last minute, he paused and spoke again. His voice was quiet yet patient. "You know, a moment ago I mentioned the editor on this book that you like so much, and I thought you might ask who that was, but you didn't, so let me elaborate. It's Bridget. And she's here tonight."

"Oh." Mark did not quite know how to feel about this. Bridget and Daniel worked together. Were presumably still friendly. Did they still—

"I know what you're thinking," he said. "And no. Not for quite a few years. Mark, she does feel awful about everything. She was devastated when she realised _exactly_ how hard this had been on you."

She hadn't looked or acted devastated. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"I understand," Daniel said, holding his hands up in surrender. "Between you and me, she is actually keen to mend fences despite what she may have said, _if_ you'll consider hearing her out again. She doesn't like anyone thinking badly about her. Bit more insecure than she was at twenty-four—but a lot more mature."

How much had she told Daniel about New Year's Day? "I'll take it under advisement."

Unexpectedly, Daniel began to chuckle. "Always the bloody lawyer," he said. "I'll see you around." He clapped Mark on the shoulder, then wandered away.

This interaction and all of its implications called for another drink; he wandered towards the bar, lost in thought, and ordered another.

He found the woman with whom he had arrived pretty much where he'd left her; she seemed quite involved in a serious conversation with a man that he recognised as a very famous author. He thought maybe if he joined the conversation he could use her presence as a shield against Bridget's approach.

But there was a part of him that wanted to hear what she had to say.

His eyes scanned the crowd looking for her (or rather, her blonde hair), assuming she hadn't changed much from January. It didn't take long to spot her, even with the number of people in attendance. She stood out. She'd looked pretty enough on New Year's (despite enduring what he suspected had been an extreme hangover), but tonight she was incandescent. She glowed from the attention being paid her; the silky, clingy black dress that she wore complemented her creamy complexion. Her hair was pinned up and off of her shoulders; her smile was a beacon from which he could not look away.

_This is inconvenient_, he thought.

Her gaze swept the general direction of where he was, and he could tell the moment she saw him; for that moment, her expression faltered, but she carried on with her end of the conversation, then made excuses to part from the group.

Then she was headed in his direction.

"Hi," she said cautiously. "Nice of you to come tonight."

"It's a fascinating book," he said. "I understand you edited it. Well done."

He could see the confusion on her face. At last, she said, "Thank you." Then she added, "Is everything all right?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You're being nice to me."

"I suppose I deserved that," he said. "I was not very amenable at the New Year."

"No, you weren't," she said. "But it's not a huge mystery as to why."

"I fully realise the irony of this statement," he said, "but I'm sorry for that."

She actually smiled a little. "I have to go and make author introductions to the crowd," she said, "but I'd really like to talk more later, if you don't mind."

He nodded. "You look really nice, by the way."

Her features softened. "Thank you. See you later."

He watched her walk away, a knot loosening in his gut. How odd it felt to be kind to her after so long.

…

Bridget went and did her introduction—not without its issues, including a malfunctioning microphone, and Bridget blanking suddenly on the author's name—before the author came up to talk; after she left the stage, she made a bee-line for Daniel.

"Brilliant, Jones," he said.

"Thank you," she said. In a quieter voice, she added, "What did you say to him, by the way?"

"To him?" Daniel said, pointing to the now-speaking author.

"_No_," she said. "To Mark."

"Not much," Daniel said. "I just told him to find it in his heart to listen to you if you wanted to talk."

She suspected there was more to it than that, but she grinned. "Big of you."

"Always glad to help," he said.

"Better go and find him," she said. "To talk."

Daniel gave her one curt nod, then turned to talk with the (unsurprisingly) beautiful woman beside him.

She looked for Mark again, tamping down the nerves that had started to build. She really didn't want to fuck it up. She wanted to give what she hoped would be an improved apology, and maybe they could move on. Maybe even be friends.

After a fruitless, frustrating search, she went out of the room that was hosting the book launch to find the ladies' loo, and while there, she touched up her makeup with powder and lipstick. As she made her exit, she found Mark, standing against the wall opposite of the washroom doors, his hands in his trouser pockets.

"I wasn't able to find you," he explained. "I figured you might be in there."

"Here I am," she said, smiling, striving for levity.

"So. You wanted to talk?"

_Oh no. He's going to yell at me._

"Yes, actually," she said, steeling herself. "Apology, take two, with a bit more explanation and yes, some grovelling. I was terribly flippant and _incredibly_ callous on New Year's. I tried to make you think that I could not care a whit about you accepting my apology. I… Maybe I was shocked. Until I saw you that day, I had no idea how badly you were hurt by the way I ended things. I was being a _total_ fuckwit—"

"I'm sorry, a what?"

"A _fuckwit_," she said. "Young and careless, and unfortunately, a bit selfish. I mean, I might have told you right away that all I wanted was some shagging, but I _assumed_ you wanted the same, like me, even like Daniel. That was foolish of me." She drew in a long breath, then exhaled. He made no move to speak. "I just want you to know that I really, truly, _never_ intended to hurt you so badly. And I'm genuinely, _genuinely_ sorry."

He seemed to be deep in his own thoughts. His expression was, not unexpectedly, impossible to read. Tense jaw, muscles working just under the surface. "I see," he said at last.

She resisted the urge to shout at him. That was all he had to say? That was really it?

Thankfully not.

"You _were_ young," he went on. "I do understand that. And I do believe you're sincere, so… apology accepted. But…" Her heart raced. What could the caveat be? "I've spent the better part of the decade insulating myself against that kind of pain again. I can't undo it with a snap of my fingers. I can't just…" He trailed off. "Well. I'm sure you understand."

Tears were suddenly in her eyes; the emotion of it all caught her up at once, as did his dismissal. Apparently he could forgive, but not forget. Seeing her socially even as friends would only remind him of the hurt. _Dammit, Bridget, don't cry. Don't look weak._ "I do understand," she said. "And I appreciate your willingness to listen and that you accepted my apology." She glanced down for a moment, to where she held her clutch. "I suppose we ought to get back to the party."

"Yes, we ought to."

She waited for him to make a move towards the party, but realised quickly that he was probably waiting for her to lead—'ladies first,' after all—so she smiled and stepped in the direction of the sound of the partygoers. He stepped forward as she did, falling in line behind her.

_Well_, she thought. _That went better than expected_.

…

From where had that come?

As he'd stepped forward, Mark caught himself before it had been too late; instinctively he had reached out a hand as if to guide her forward, but had pulled it away before he'd actually placed his hand against the small of her back.

It wasn't a habit he had in general with other people, other women. In fact, he couldn't think of another woman with whom it had been a habit. Nevertheless, he had just almost done it, automatically. Without thinking of it consciously.

Again, intriguing.

What had the difference between the two apologies been? The words hadn't been that different, but how she'd delivered them had made all the difference in the world. And he'd seen the tears in her eyes at the end of their conversation. She'd truly been affected. She _was_ truly sorry.

He'd been about to say that he couldn't just, in an instant, pretend it had never happened to him, but now he was not to so sure. At seeing her expression, her relief, he'd felt that knot of tenseness and bitterness release even more. He now felt more at peace than he had felt in years.

Deep down inside, he had apparently been far more willing than he'd thought he would be to let the past be the past.

…

Daniel thought his eyes were deceiving him; that, as Bridget came back into the party, Mark had actually placed his hand against her back. But he dismissed it. He couldn't picture relations between the two had improved that much in so short a time. But given the calm re-entry, things clearly had improved at least a little.

Bridget came directly back to where Daniel had sat.

"Well, you look _much_ improved."

"I'm not even going to be offended by that," she said with a smirk.

"Come now. You _know_ you look great," Daniel said, "and you know what I mean."

"I do," she said. "And yes. That went very well. Apology was accepted."

"Kiss and make up?"

"_What?!_ No," she said with a laugh, her cheeks flushing a light pink. "You're such a joker."

Perhaps he hadn't seen what he thought he saw, after all. "Not even a hug? A bottom pat?"

"_Come on_."

The gears in Daniel's head began to turn. So he hadn't actually touched her. Why would Mark _almost_ touch her? Why would he stop himself from reaching to touch her?

Hm. He'd _wanted_ to touch her.

Daniel knew his friend, or at least had known him as well as anyone could, even if they had not been in contact for years at a stretch. He knew Mark had been angry at her for breaking his heart, but before that had happened, Mark had admitted that he'd thought he was falling for her. Now that the anger was dissipating…

Daniel grinned impishly.

"Oh, I don't want to know what's on _your_ mind," Bridget said with a little laugh.

"Always wise," he said drolly. "Say. When we're done here…"

"No."

He rolled his eyes comically. "Not _that_, Bridget. Want to wind down with a nightcap? I've got some stuff to deal with first, so meet me over at the American Bar after here. I'll be there at… eleven?"

She seemed to think about it for two seconds before agreeing.

…

Something about this situation felt like the most intense déjà vu that she had ever experienced. She had been to a lot of bars in her day; had she been here before? She must have been. She looked around in search of Daniel; she already knew she was going to beat him here, had already claimed a standing table, and had begun working on a cocktail in earnest. But it was already past eleven, so where was he? It was not like him to be late, and the bar was just a short walk from book launch venue.

She swirled her drink around, scowling. Why did this place look so familiar? It was driving her mental.

And at the sound of a voice, she knew why at once.

"Bridget?"

She turned and found herself face to face with Mark, his hand cradling a tumbler of scotch. He continued, his brows furrowed, "What brings you here?"

"Daniel told me to meet him for a nightcap."

His jaw tensed and released; funny how a small little behavioural thing like this could feel so instantly familiar. "He told me the same."

She smiled, then began to laugh a little. If Daniel meant to mediate further peace-making, he was already failing. "I'm so sorry to laugh," she said, "but I'm starting to feel like Daniel's stood us up."

"I don't think," he said, his tone serious, "that Daniel had any intention of coming."

"But why would he—" She stopped suddenly, remembering Daniel's impish smile. Mark was completely correct; this mirrored their first collision for drinks at this very bar, also orchestrated by Daniel. But why had Daniel done this?

_Does he know something I don't?_

"Trying to further friendly relations, I suppose," Mark said. He looked distinctly uneasy; she was sure that he was also thinking about how their first date had been here. Mark had always had an astonishing memory for detail.

"I don't mind if you don't," she said gently.

At this, he relaxed a little. "I don't mind," he said. He raised his tumbler. "To friendly relations, then."

She smiled unabashedly. "I'll drink to that," she said, touching her glass to his, then tipping it up for a sip.

…

Mark was not sure if he wanted to punch Daniel in the face or thank him, because having a late-night drink with Bridget was an unexpected development; not unwelcome, all things considered. He'd made excuses with Natasha, who seemed only moderately annoyed, probably because she'd made a connection with so many authors, before he'd headed to the bar. He'd expected to reconnect with his old friend. He hadn't seen this coming at all, but maybe he should have.

He had spent a long time actively pushing down anything resembling feelings towards a woman. After a while, it had just been habit. It was his normal. The conscious effort to release this control even just a little, to try to undo his normal, still felt strange. He still felt very unsure now what he _should_ be feeling.

Was the attraction he felt was merely a remnant of their past, or embers sparking back to life? He honestly didn't know. She might not have been twenty-four anymore, but the things he'd liked most about her hadn't appreciably changed. She was still as pretty as she'd ever been. Her figure was as exactly as he'd remembered. She had seemingly retained the vivacity and joy that had drawn him to her like a roaring hearth on a cold winter night, though the years between then and now had apparently tempered her impetuousness.

"So, I…" she began hesitantly, then screwed up her features. "You know? I have no idea how to summarise almost an entire decade."

"You're a full-blown editor now," he encouraged. "You'd only just started at a publishing house when I… well, knew you before."

"Oh, that's true!" she said brightly. "It was entirely on merit, I _swear_, since when I applied for the job I didn't know it was where Daniel was. Oh. Is everything good between you two?"

Mark nodded slightly. "I think so, yes."

"Oh, good," she said. "Anyway. I hadn't seen or spoken to Daniel in a couple of years at that point, but it was a nice a surprise. I fit the requirements, the interview was a cinch… and voila." She sipped from her drink. He realised that once she'd gotten to talking, she'd eased up immediately; her friendly loquaciousness hadn't changed a bit. Would it were so easy for him, even with a cocktail or two in him. "What about you?"

"Still practising law, as you know," he said, feeling a smile trying to surface on his lips to soften the reminder of his curt response to her small-talk query in January. "Working in chambers on human rights cases and causes."

"Ah," she said. Sheepishly, she added, "Sorry, I don't know enough about the field to ask more about it. I mean, aside from human rights violations just being heart-breaking."

"I can't talk much about my cases, but I would certainly agree with that assessment." He sipped from his own tumbler. "It seems like you really love what you're doing."

"Oh, yes, I do," she said. "Sometimes it feels like a dream that I'm going to wake up from at any moment." She drank again. "And you have always loved what you do."

"Not sure that I 'love' it, but I _am_ passionate about it," he said. "None of us are free until we are all free."

She blinked rapidly. "Wow, that's lovely," she said. "Really deep."

"I'd like to take credit, but can't," he said. "Just paraphrasing Emma Lazarus."

"Shush," she said with a grin, patting his arm playfully. "Let me think you're super profound."

That urge to smile came to him again. Why did he feel like he had to fight it? Why not just embrace the moment, accept the truce completely?

"You all right?" she asked, real concern in her expression.

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry," he said, allowing a smile at last. "Just trying to project an air of 'super profound.'"

At this she laughed aloud.

"It's nice to hear your laugh again," he said, surprising even himself with the admission.

"It's nice to hear _you_ cracking a joke," she said, then, drawing a circle in the air with her free hand as if around his face, she added, "And, you know, the whole smiling thing. I hope you keep it up."

"I hope so, too," he said. "Another drink?"

"Yes, please," she said, holding up the empty glass. "Gin fizz."

He returned to the bar and ordered them a new round of drinks; as he waited amongst the murmur of the crowd, he couldn't help thinking about their interactions. It felt to him like they were falling back into a familiar conversational rhythm. He welcomed it completely. He wondered if it was just her friendly personality putting him at ease. He wondered if she was actually flirting with him.

Remarkably, he found himself hoping she was.

"Here you are," he said, holding out her new drink.

"Thank you," she said with a smile, accepting it then drinking from it.

"My pleasure."

She then seemed to regard him thoughtfully. "That's nice," she said. "You really mean it."

"Pardon?"

She blushed. "You were just minding your manners at New Year's. It's nice to see this, that's all." She took another sip of her drink. "I meant to ask," she said, "I thought I saw you with someone at the party. What's her name? Have you been seeing her long?"

He couldn't help but wonder why she was asking. Perhaps making conversation? Expressing interest in knowing whether he was single or attached? Certainly he was not seeing Natasha or involved in a romantic way with her, though thought he should probably _not_ mention the occasional sex to fulfil the physical need. There was nothing terribly satisfying about the interactions, anyway.

"A work colleague," he said. "We're not seeing each other."

"Oh?" she asked. "Not even for a quick shag?"

He blinked at this in astonishment, given his thoughts.

"Oh my God. I was _kidding_," she said, laughing. "I'm not judging."

"Are _you_ seeing anyone?" he asked suddenly.

"No," she said. "Not even for… well." She blushed, which finished her sentence for her.

…

_Why did I say that? __Why__?_

She took a long sip from her gin fizz.

"Ah," he said at last, regarding her with a maddeningly unreadable expression; she looked away and to her drink again.

She hadn't had a shag in longer than she wanted to think about, so she tried not to interpret his asking about whether she was attached as anything but curiosity… even if the reason she'd asked him was more than curiosity. Once he'd warmed up, once he'd started smiling, once he'd said, "My pleasure," she couldn't stop thinking of the incredibly steamy times she'd had with him. Inconvenient, really, when they'd only just made up.

She looked up at him after many moments, only to find his expression had changed. He was now radiating an intensity she hadn't seen in… well, since they had been shagging like mad rabbits.

Then he raised his hand, brushed a long lock of hair that had escaped from her upswept coiffure, and tucked it behind her ear. It was such an unconscious, intimate action to take, one that took her so by surprise—especially paired with that gaze of his—that she didn't know what to say.

She couldn't look away, not as his fingers traced over her cheek to the line of her jaw to tip her chin up, and not as he lowered to place a kiss on her lips, gentle at first, then insistent, his tongue brushing against her lips until she parted them.

_Oh God_.

The electrical jolt of desire that coursed through her body was immediate and undeniable, as if no time at all had passed since they'd last kissed. His arm had gone around her waist and now pulled her up against him. A soft sound came from her as he did this, which seemed to spur him on a bit more. She snaked an arm around his neck, feeling lightheaded, kissing him back as intensely as he was kissing her—

And then he broke away, pushing back from her with a sudden jerk, his brows furrowed.

"What? What's wrong?"

That's when she noticed the collar and the front of his shirt were wet; that's when she realised that the hand of the arm she had brought up around his neck had been holding her drink, and she had accidentally poured the rest of it all over him.

"Oh, no, I'm _so sorry_!" she said, setting her now-empty glass down. She reached for the bar, for a stack of paper napkins, then pressed them to the spill.

"It's all right," he said coolly; it did not sound all right. "I'm afraid I'll have to go."

"Okay."

He met her gaze once more, then came up close to her ear, then said in a low voice, slipping her hand into his, "Come with me."

As he drew away she met his gaze once more, and again said, "Okay."

She then offered a small, knowing smile.


	4. The One Less Travelled By

**Chapter 4: The One Less Travelled By**

**Fast-Forward**

_2006_

The silent treatment. There was nothing worse than the silent treatment, because he was damned if he asked her what was wrong, and he was damned if he didn't.

"Bridget," he said tentatively. "Tell me what's on your mind. What's wrong?"

She turned her fierce gaze to him in an instant. "I'm surprised you even have to ask, considering I'm helping you pack again for a work trip."

"And I appreciate that," he said.

"It's not the _packing_, Mark. It's _another_ bloody work trip," she said. "I don't understand why you have to keep taking these jobs so far away. I'm pregnant. I need you here."

"I'm sorry," he said, "but this trip is the culmination of three years' worth of work. I can't just… not go. And I'll be back before you know it, long before your due date."

"What if something happens?"

"What's going to happen?"

"_Anything_ could happen. I could fall in the shower. Something could happen to the baby. Something could happen to _you_."

"Nothing's going to happen to me."

"You can't promise that. And then what would I do?" she asked, tears in her eyes. "Can't you send one of the junior partners, instead?"

"The negotiators won't proceed if it's not me there. Believe me. I've tried to get out of it every which way to Sunday," he said, exasperated, but wholly empathetic. He reached out and took her hand, pulled her into his arms. She returned the embrace. "This will be the last one."

She sighed. "You can't promise that, either," she said, sadness in her voice.

The thing was, he couldn't.

**Rewind**

_March, 1995_

After slipping into their outerwear, they made their way out of the American Bar; Mark claimed her hand again, led her to his car—very expensive luxury-type sedan, not surprising—then opened the passenger door for her. He said nothing, his expression told her nothing; he just closed the door after she sat down and then went around to the driver's side. She began to wonder if she'd just imagined the heady kiss they'd just had. However, before he engaged the engine, he turned to look at her again with another smoky yet piercing gaze. She couldn't tell if he wanted to tell her off or reach over and kiss her. It was exceedingly sexy.

The ride towards his house wasn't more than twenty, twenty-five minutes, to the tony neighbourhood of Holland Park; when he stopped and disengaged the engine in front one of the tall, wedding-cake-style homes, she had to stop herself from letting her mouth gape open.

He got out of the car then went around to open hers, ever the gentleman.

"Thank you," she said, feeling oddly formal.

"My pleasure."

He drew out his keys and pushed open the door to allow her entrance. The lights in the foyer were already on and she again had to stop her jaw from dropping. It was a beautiful and obviously very expensive house, albeit a bit spartanly decorated.

He slipped out of his overcoat, as did she, which he took and hung on the coat rack. He dropped his keys onto a sideboard table, then turned to look at her with those intense eyes, not saying a word.

"I'm afraid I ruined your shirt," she said suddenly; she didn't know what else to say. Surely she had not misunderstood the reason for his invitation.

"Please, don't apologise," he said. "It was an accident." Then he offered a small smile. "One I'm afraid I had a hand in causing. But ruining a shirt was worth it."

She smiled back.

He came up to her again, took her hand, running a thumb over the back. The light sensation was almost erotic.

"Let me show you upstairs," he said quietly.

She nodded.

The walk up the staircase seemed to last forever. She felt his hand against her back. He didn't stop at the first floor landing, continued up to the second floor; he strode over then swung the double doors open. The room was shockingly large, probably as large as the whole footprint of the house itself, and lit with a warm, soft glow by a lamp on each bedside table; the four-poster bed seemed as wide as an airport landing strip.

"Have you been in this house long?" she asked.

"About five years," he said. "Why?"

She smiled. "I was just thinking how we spent all of our time before at my tiny flat in my… comparatively minuscule bed…"

He chuckled. "It was comfortable," he recalled. "But I hardly noticed the size at the time. Was rather more focused on _you_." He came close to her, bringing a hand to her shoulder. "You look absolutely astonishing in this dress," he said, his fingers playing along the skin at the collar. "I'd wanted to say so earlier, but it… didn't seem appropriate."

She felt a bit bashful. "I'm glad you think so," she said.

"I think everyone at the party thought so," he said.

"But I'm here with _you_."

"So you are." He stepped close to her, cupping her face with his hands. "So you are," he said again, his voice a whisper. Then he lowered his head as if he were about to kiss her.

"Your shirt," she said suddenly.

He chuckled again. "I suppose it would make sense to take care of that, wouldn't it?" He drew away. "I'll go into the en suite and get out of this shirt. Why don't you—" His eyes flicked down to her body. "—do the same with the dress and then make yourself comfortable?"

It seemed logical, so she nodded, turning around. "Unzip me?"

She felt his fingers on her back, working down the zipper all the way to the small of her back. "Be right back," he said; she heard his footsteps on the carpet then the door to the en suite click shut.

She tugged the shoulders down, then stepped out of the dress, peeled off her stockings, shed her pants and bra. She then pulled a corner of the bed covers down and slipped between the sheets. They were the most luxurious sheets she had ever had against her skin, and the mattress was the most comfortable one she'd been on in some time.

Mmmm. She closed her eyes, let out a long breath, hardly believing where she was, and who she was about to spend the night with. She never would have expected this at the start of her day… and yet the anticipation now was almost more than she could bear.

She heard the door open again; instinctively she tugged the sheets and duvet to her chin. He came close to the bed, smirking a little. "I doubt hiding is necessary."

He was absolutely stark naked, and he looked fucking magnificent, every bit as fucking magnificent as he had at thirty.

He continued: "Can you maybe… move over?"

"Oh, sorry, sorry," she said, scooting over so that he could get in beside her. He turned to face her, then pushed the bed sheets and duvet away from her to take the sight of her in, before he lowered his head to kiss her. Quickly he was up against her, wrapping his arms around her. She felt like she was drowning in him, in the best possible way.

…

He hadn't realised how much he'd missed this, missed _her_, until he was about to kiss her again—not in a bar, not in public, but in the privacy of his own bedroom, where the only thing stopping them from what they were about to do was one of them changing their minds. And he knew he wasn't about to.

Letting down the walls he had carefully constructed over the last decade had been strangely easy once he'd decided to do it; how could he have not, with the chance to be with her again?

He brought his lips to hers again, soft against his own, and as he deepened the kiss, as he pressed his body against the length of hers, she responded in kind, making soft sounds of pleasure.

…

As if no time had passed. He'd remembered all of the places that she loved being touched, caressed; being with him now was like no time at all had passed.

"A _really_ good memory, my God," she said when she broke away to rest atop him, sweeping a hand over the fine mat of hair on his chest, which rose and fell as he breathed heavily in and out.

"That in particular I could _never_ forget," he murmured, his hand stroking over her hair; she realised her upswept coiffure must have at this point looked like a fright wig. "I know this is going to sound like lust-suffused pillow talk, but you're the best I'd ever had. No one compared."

She felt a blush flood her skin. If it was just pillow talk, she still loved to hear it, but felt a little embarrassed. "Oh, go on."

"I'm not exaggerating," he said. "I didn't even—" He stopped.

"What?" She pushed herself up to look at him again. "_What?_"

"I didn't even want to kiss other women."

"But you said earlier that you—"

"Yes," he interrupted.

She understood what he meant. Whatever he'd done with other women had just been quick and only enough to get physical satisfaction. There had been no connection, no sentiment involved. She felt unexpectedly emotional. "I'm sorry."

"Don't let's go over that again," he said sternly, but somehow, she knew the tone was only an affectation. "I think we can safely consider that water under the bridge."

"Something under something, anyway," she said, referring to their present positions. "Mark, can I ask you something?"

"I think it's all right just to ask, at this juncture," he said.

"Have you got a hairbrush or something I might use to work this mess out?"

He began to laugh such in a way that… she wondered if it were possible that he hadn't laughed this hard in years; how bad did her hair look, anyway? Carefully she drew away and off of him, intending on lying amongst the crumpled sheets.

"Oh, I'm not laughing at you," he said, drawing her close to him again. "It's… an emotional release. I haven't felt, well, _happy_ in a long time. And your request for a hairbrush struck me as completely ludicrous."

She touched the grey at his temples with a smile, thinking back to when she'd first spotted him on New Year's looking like a grim stone pillar. How he'd changed. How she'd helped just by reaching out and apologising. At this tears flooded her eyes again.

"I'm sorry. Did I say something wrong?"

She shook her head. "As you said. Emotional release."

"Ah." He leaned to kiss her. "Let me find a brush for you. As you see, I don't have need of anything too heavy duty."

She grinned. "Okay."

He rolled to the edge of the bed to sit, then rose to stride to the en suite. She couldn't help watching him walk the entire time. It was a view that she'd frankly missed.

He didn't come back right away as she'd expected. In fact she heard him call for her from the en suite.

She got up, pulling a blanket (smaller than the massive bed, thank goodness) from a chair there in the room, and wrapped it around her under her arms. She mused how she would not have cared a decade ago to walk around naked in front of a lover. Now she was too insecure, convinced that everything was sagging like a Hollywood special effect.

He stood there with a brush; she couldn't avoid seeing her hair looked as badly as she feared it might. "I found one. But I thought you might like to have a shower to wash out the hairspray."

"Oh, yes please," she said. "You'll join me?"

He smiled almost demurely. "I'd love to. But you know, you can't bring the blanket in with you."

He was right. _Well_, she thought, _he's already seen me, and didn't react badly_. Maybe her insecurity was all in her head. She unwrapped the blanket from around her, tossed it back onto the chair, and turned back to him.

He took a moment to look her over appraisingly, then offered the brush to her. "I don't dare try, myself. I'd probably make it worse. I'll just get the water going."

He had not only an enclosed shower stall with clear stall walls but, she noticed, a rather large jacuzzi-style bathtub next to it. She couldn't help but grin and hope that at some point, they might use it.

As he fired up the shower then got in, she began plucking Kirby grips from her hair, then worked the brush through section by section. She got through it faster than she expected. By the end of the process, her hair seemed to stand on end. _I dearly hope he has conditioner_, she thought.

She pushed the stall door aside then stepped in with him. He'd already washed his hair and most of his body, so he moved aside to give her the stream of water, which sluiced over her head, flattening the cloud of hair down against her head.

"Allow me."

She didn't want to open her eyes and get hair product in them, so she nodded and then felt him squeeze out a portion shampoo on her head. She began to work it in, then felt his fingers join hers to massage her scalp.

"Mmm," she said. Those lovely, long, strong fingers.

"Rinse," he said in a commanding tone. She did as asked.

"Soap?" she asked.

He handed her a bar. She sniffed it. Lavender? She lathered it up then scrubbed at her face, hoping like hell she wouldn't have panda eyes. She then rinsed her face under the water stream, pushed her hair back, blinked her eyes open, then looked to him.

"Conditioner?"

"Yes." He took the soap from her, set it into the recessed area in the wall, then reached for a second bottle. Handed it to her.

"Thank God."

They traded places again so he was under the water; as she worked the conditioner through, he commented, "Your hair's longer than I remember."

"My mother keeps telling me that women in their thirties don't have long hair," she said, twisting her hair into a loop to let the conditioner really take hold. "I swear I keep growing it to spite her."

He smiled, then grasped her shoulders, stroking the skin there with his thumbs as the water pounded down. "May I ask a favour?"

"Of course."

"Don't mention your mother again?"

She began to laugh. "Sorry."

He slipped his hands to her hips. "You should be," he said. "This might put her out of my mind."

…

After he'd finished in the en suite, he got back into bed to wait for her, sitting back against the pillows, with the duvet and sheets pulled up and folded over at his waist, the edge folded down as if to invite her return. Before too long, he saw the light switch off. She seemed to tentatively pad out of there, and as soon as she came close enough for the lamp to illuminate her, he couldn't take his gaze away. Her hair was still quite damp and hanging in loose waves, and her freshly scrubbed skin, particularly her face, was glowing. The soft curve of her hips and stomach, the full swell of her breasts, were everything he remembered and wanted.

He reached for her. "Come here."

She climbed in beside him, pulled the sheets up to her waist; she was turned slightly towards him. He wanted to have her again, and this time, wanted to touch and explore every inch of her body. Wanted to kiss every inch of her body, though knew—_hoped_—that would come in due time.

He raised a hand to cup her face again, brushing his thumb along her cheek.

"Sorry," she said.

"What on earth are you sorry for?"

"Not… well, not having the glamourous hairdo, the makeup…"

"Stop talking nonsense," he said brusquely. Then, he said more gently, "I was just thinking how completely beautiful you look. Nothing on you but the afterglow."

She blinked a few times, which caused a tear to roll down and over his thumb.

"Emotional release?" he asked, brushing the wetness away.

She shook her head. "Because I was an idiot to not have seen what was right in front of me, all because of the misfortune of having just broken up with the biggest prat in England after seven years."

He brought his brows together, but then remembered: Peter. The reason she hadn't wanted to embark on another relationship. Then the larger implications of what she was saying struck Mark: she ultimately had regretted that she had not pursued a relationship with him then.

He considered his words carefully. "Maybe this is too much, too soon," he said quietly, "but I'm in front of you again now."

He watched her take in a deep breath, then exhale. She regarded him warily. "I thought you said you couldn't just undo all of it in a snap."

"And yet I'm saying it anyway," he said. "You'll just have to remind me not to close myself off, if I slip and forget."

He watched her lower lip start to quiver. "I think I could manage that."

"All right, darling," he said tenderly, stroking her face again. "All right."

He kissed her, held her, caressed her, made her forget her regrets until the very small hours, when they fell to sleep in each other's arms; he could not speak for her, but he slept soundly and peacefully for the first time in a very long time.

He had called her 'darling,' and she had not objected.

…

What a whirlwind.

She did not get back to her own flat until later the following afternoon wearing her party dress from the night before, which garnered a few strange looks as she walked back to her building door, escorted there by Mark.

"Come over later," she said.

"All right," he said, then bent to kiss her.

Her answerphone light was blinking like mad when she got in; almost all of the calls were from Daniel, sounding frantic about where she was. It took her a moment to realise he was taking the piss. He made it very plain at the end of the string of messages that he knew exactly where she'd been.

_Bastard_, she thought with a laugh.

Had things happened too fast? She didn't think so. On the contrary, it felt like something that was meant to be had clicked into place. Almost from the moment she had fully expressed her apology, and he had accepted it, he was again the kind, thoughtful, courteous man that she had known years before.

That, she realised, she had actually _loved_ years before.

She picked up the phone not to call Daniel, but to call Shazzer, who had been there at the beginning of it all.

"You are _never_ going to believe what happened last night."

She then told Shazzer the story of how the apology last night had quickly led to their reigniting in bed, and more than that, to the promise of more, of an actual relationship. She listened and said not a word until the end, and even then said only:

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

But Shazzer was smiling; Bridget could hear the smile in her voice.

"I'm not."

"And everything was, you know, smoking hot?"

"As hot as it ever was."

Shazzer laughed. "Well, you got lucky last night, in more ways than one."

…

The bloody phone. Would not. Stop ringing.

Daniel realised he must have switched off his machine, so he rolled over to answer it.

"This had better be good," he mumbled. The bed shifted beside him; the woman he'd brought home from the launch party—_Andrea? Angela? Shit_, he thought—turned over and looked at him, blinking sleep from her eyes.

"Thank you." It was Mark; Daniel sat up. "Your machinations again had the intended effect."

"I thought they might," Daniel said, thinking of the messages that he'd left for Bridget. "Picked up where you left off?"

"More than that," he said. "Going for an actual relationship."

He smiled, happy for his friend. "Well done, you," he said. "Make time on Tuesday. You can tell me all about it at lunch, all right?"

"I'd like that."

"All right. The old haunt. See you then, about noon."

He put down the phone.

"Who was that?"

"My friend, Mark," he said. "I worked a little magic for him."

"Oh, that's lovely."

He reclined back onto the bed. "Mmm," he said, brushing a thumb over her lower lip. "Now it's your turn."

…

_Una Alconbury is going to lose her mind_.

That was the only thing Bridget could think of, as she patted her face with powder up in preparation of Mark arriving that evening, with a broad smile on her face. The application of a little lip gloss was all that was left, and she stood back to take in her own reflection. Her hair was down and loosely waved around her shoulders, brushing against her mid-back, and she wore a snug top and a miniskirt, her legs bare and smooth.

She was pleased with how she looked, and hoped he'd think so, too.

When her entryphone went off, she dashed across the flat for it.

"Takeaway delivery."

She was confused. She hadn't ordered anything. "Who is this?"

"It's Mark." Then he chuckled. "I've brought dinner."

"Ooh."

She pressed the buzzer to let him in, then went and opened her flat door in anticipation, leaning against her door frame. Shortly he was on her floor, and as his gaze locked onto her, he hesitated in his step, then smiled.

"Hi," she said.

"Hello." He held up his carrier bag. "I brought a curry. Hope that's all right."

"Of course it is."

"I just… preferred to stay in, rather than go out."

She grinned; she had hoped they'd stay in, too. "Come on in."

He set down the bag and removed his raincoat; as he did, he looked around. "Can't believe it," he said. "It looks just like I remember."

"I did replace the sofa with that chaise-style thing…"

"I just mean the overall ambience. I always remembered it as comfortable. Cosy." He smiled again. "You look nice, by the way."

"Thanks," she said. "So do you." He wasn't wearing a suit, but rather, khaki trousers and an off-white jumper. He had recently shaved; she could smell the brisk aftershave as she got closer to him, saw the neatness of the line of his sideburn. She ran a hand down over the jumper. "Very informal."

"I figured the occasion called for informal," he said. "Shall we get to it, then?"

She nodded, biting her tongue on a naughty double-entendre.

Rather than sit at her dining table, she suggested they just get wine and flatware, and park in the sitting room to eat straight from the containers. "Keeping with the informal theme," she said. "Will white wine be all right?"

"Sure."

The food was excellent: a biryani dish and a korma dish, both with chicken, mild on the spice level and exceedingly tasty. They must have both been hungrier than they thought, because there was hardly any conversation.

"I don't know what makes me think of this," she said as she scraped the last of the rice out of her container, "but I wonder about how things might have turned out if we hadn't actually met until this year. Do you think we might have still connected?"

He seemed to think about it. "Knowing you then, and knowing you now, I think we would have. With another decade of experiences under our belt, we'd not be quite the same people, but there's a basic compatibility here. Despite our differences, or maybe because of them, I think that would win out in the end."

She'd hoped he might say something reassuring. She leaned over and planted a kiss on his lips, which resulted in him taking her around the waist, pulling her across his lap, and deepening the kiss.

"I can't express," he said breathlessly, "how much I've missed this."

She knew he didn't mean since earlier that same day. She brought her fingers up to trace a tender path over the lines in his face. _No more regrets_, she thought. _Just gratitude for the present and the future_.

**Fast-Forward**

_2013_

"Children! Breakfast!"

The eldest of the two—Billy, seven years of age—came into the dining room, and the expression on his face almost made Bridget laugh. He looked very serious—almost as serious as his father—as he approached.

"Mummy," he said. "My shoe's gone."

"Gone?"

"Yup. One's there and the other isn't."

Bridget folded her arms over her chest. "Where you put them in the coat closet after school yesterday."

"Yup."

"And have you asked your sister?"

"Yup," he said.

"And what did she say?"

"I didn't thee it." This from her five-year-old girl, Mabel, who had just come into the room. Bridget turned to look at her, smoothed down her flyaway blonde hair. "Maybe da doggie took it."

"Sweetheart, we don't have a dog."

"Oh," she said. "Can we get one?"

Bridget began to laugh.

"I still can't find my shoe," Billy reminded.

"Can you wear other shoes today?"

"No," he said with a pout. In fact, he looked like he might start to cry. "They're my favourite shoes and I _have_ to wear them today. I can't run as fast in the other ones!"

"If we can't find it before you have to leave for school, you'll have to wear another pair," she said. "I can ask Chloe when she comes by later."

"But—"

"No 'but'. I can't just magically find them."

"Why not?" he asked tearfully. "You find my stuff all the time."

She heard footsteps coming down from the upper floor, and they all heard a voice: "I would really like to know how this got into my briefcase, William."

She turned to see Mark standing there; he tried to look stern, but she could tell that he was very close to laughing. In one hand was his briefcase. In the other was—

"My shoe!"

Billy ran forward with a beaming smile to take his missing, prized trainer.

"Oh, I put dat dere," said Mabel nonchalantly.

"You just said you didn't see it," Bridget said.

"Dat was a different shoe."

"_Why_ did you put it in my briefcase?"

"De shoes were playin' Hide and Seek."

At this, Bridget could not help but smile, then laugh. Mark set down his briefcase, walked over to sweep his little girl up into his arms, pecking a kiss on her cheek. Mabel giggled and threw her arms around his neck.

Bridget looked to Mark, and he to her. Her heart was so full of love at this moment that she felt like she might cry. She wasn't sure why, but didn't trust her voice to speak. She sniffed and mouthed the words, _I love you_.

He stepped forward to put one arm around her, too. Close to her ear, he said, "I love you, too."

_The end._


End file.
